Gotham High: Your Own Worst Enemy
by CJ1145
Summary: Sequel to my last GH fic, Barbara and Bruce's attempts to enter the school talent show go horribly awry when a new student cracks under the pressure of stage fright, and his own puppet takes the helm. AU, with Batman starting out in high school.
1. Chapter 1

The grandfather clock rang. It was accompanied by a dozen others of its kind, distant though ever-present in the lonely halls of Wayne Manor. The walls were a rich and exquisite maroon in almost every room, warmly lit by various fireplaces and carefully-arranged stained glass lamps of various sorts. The vigilant sentinel, Alfred Pennyworth patrolled the halls ceaselessly. If even a speck of dust were to be found in a corner, he pounced like a hungry lion. Feather dusters would perform their grim task with no remorse, and the speck would be little more than a pained memory.

There were too many rooms in the manor to count, which made it a nightmare to navigate for anyone new to it. On this Sunday morning in early October, the house's current victim was a completely overwhelmed Barbara Gordon. The ginger haired girl looked all around in bewilderment, a couple whimpering noises escaping her throat as she realized just how affluent her new friend Bruce Wayne really was. When they met on that August morning at the beginning of sophomore year, she had never suspected that he would turn out to be the richest man in Gotham. Neither had she suspected that he was quite as inviting as he was.

The previous day, Bruce had been invited for dinner for what must have been the hundredth time by Barbara's father, newly-promoted Commissioner Jim Gordon. The mood had been somber, to say the very least. The Commissioner looked aged nearly to his golden years by the stress of losing a colleague and suddenly replacing him, and to say he was unwilling to talk was such an understatement you may have lost a few brain cells simply saying it. Bruce, the quick-thinking boy that he was, made the suggestion that perhaps the next day Barbara could come over to his house for a change. Being in the financial position he was in, he noted it was more or less robbery to be relying on their goodwill and not vice-versa. Though the Gordons tried to resist and avoid imposing on their orphaned friend, they found themselves roped in.

And that was how Barbara Gordon found herself carefully tip-toeing through Bruce's luxurious mansion. Her heart was still catching up to the rest of her, after leaping when she passed through the estate's gate in her friend's stretch limousine. The Gordons lived in a small house cramped between two others in one of the less aesthetic neighborhoods in Gotham City, this was a kind of wealth she simply wasn't prepared for. Every step she took came with the apprehension of wondering just what kind of priceless Ming vase or family portrait she would knock over first. However, neither of those things were touched. What she hit instead was a bookshelf.

They had entered the parlor room, a wide-open space divided into a simple, yet refined dining area on one half and a living room/study on the other. Bruce had been giving the Gordon daughter the grand tour, and was going on about how his dad had nearly killed one of the contractors building the place after he installed the chandelier directly over the fireplace as opposed to the dining table.

Though she wasn't exactly bored, Bruce was insane if he thought Barbara was going to do nothing but sit around and listen to him spout irrelevant historical crap for four hours. With him none the wiser, she turned and started walking towards the bookshelf, hoping that there would be some kind of reading material to distract her from the main event. She stepped past the couch, to find the oddest of all surprises waiting for her: a great dane.

The black dog stuck its head out from behind the couch like a carefully-placed leg to trip one's friend. Barbara fell for it hook, line and sinker, and tumbled straight into the bookshelf. It wobbled for a moment, before going for the most catastrophic option available and pouring its contents on top of the miserable little girl who could be heard screaming "Not again!" underneath the mountain.

Bruce finally turned around to see what had happened, and shouted a general gasp in surprise. "Ace, bad!" he shouted as he rushed over to help Barbara out from beneath the rubble. He tossed a few volumes away and pulled her up for air as she gasped. He placed Barbara a few feet away, sitting on the couch as he began to pick up the mess she had made. She clutched her head, muttering curses to herself as she wondered where that dog went. She needed something to hit. She tried to look around for him, but that only compounded the aching in her skull. She gave up, and tried to steady herself by fixing her gaze at the disaster zone that might once have been called a bookshelf.

The Wayne boy was moving about like a bee, stacking books in to various piles on the plush carpet. His eyes were focused, two icy blue things dead-set on their task, unwilling to take in any unnecessary information. That was when she noticed something odd. The bookshelf, now standing grim and barren, still had one small speck of its former charges remaining. While all the others had made their mission to crush a poor red-headed girl into a fine paste, one book stayed behind. It was a dull green hardcover book, whatever text was on its spine was faded from years of wear and tear. Out of curiosity, Barbara called her friend, who barely looked up from his task to acknowledge he was listening.

"One of the books didn't fall; looks old, what is it?"

Bruce looked up, seemingly doubting of Barbara's claim; that look disappeared when he set eyes on the little tome she was referring to, at which point his eyes took on an appearance that almost looked fearful. "That? It's nothing." he assured her, suddenly stacking a dozen books on either side of it, almost like he was hiding it amongst its own kind. With the others on the floor, Bruce stood tall and stretched his back out, apparently leaving the rest for Alfred to handle. He walked over to the couch and sat down next to Barbara, leaning back into the cushion.

"So," Bruce queried. "are you usually more coordinated than that, or does the Gotham Museum have a bounty on you?"

Barbara grimaced. She wasn't one for ribbing, friendly or otherwise. "If you're going to blame anyone, blame your mutt, sticking his head out in front of innocent young women's feet."

"Hey!" Bruce exclaimed, sounding hurt. "Ace is a purebred with a lineage dating back hundreds of years! The queen of England wishes her bloodline was as royal as his."

Barbara relented and gave a little chuckle. Apparently Bruce wanted to be laughed at today. Before the conversation could continue, Bruce hopped back to his feet and pulled the unsuspecting Barbara up with him. She nearly toppled into the fireplace as the blood rushed back to her head, and was only saved this time thanks to Bruce being there to block her fall. He shook his head and led her along out of the room. "Let's go find Alfred to make some food;" he told her. "The silverware is replaceable."

Approximately an hour after the horrid bookshelf incident, Barbara and Bruce found themselves on a balcony on the third floor of Wayne Manor. There was a simple, by the standards of the house, table and a pair of chairs overlooking the estate. Verdant green fields, carefully tended to by dozens of workers, with gently rolling hills. An apple orchard was visible over a quarter of a mile in the distance, and to the left and even further were the cliffs that overlooked the ocean.

"Okay, I'll admit it." Barbara said, smiling as she observed the landscape. "This is actually pretty impressive; how did your parents manage to make a place this beautiful around Gotham?"

Bruce sipped at a goblet Alfred had brought him several minutes before, and idly stirred his fork around a bit of roast pork as he mulled the question over. "To tell the truth, my parents weren't really responsible for anything here. My family goes back in Gotham, pretty much back to its founding. My great-great-grandfather built this place. The rest of us just add on every generation or two."

"That so?" Barbara asked. She was eyeing her own drink at this point. It was in a wine glass, and it was certainly purple. She sniffed it, and took a tentative sip. Just grape juice. Good to know Mr. Wayne wasn't trying to get his friend drunk on a Sunday afternoon. "So then, Bruce, what have you added to this place?"

A little beat of sweat rolled down his forehead. That spoke more than any amount of words: he hadn't done anything with the place.

"I'm not really finished settling back in yet." he explained, tugging at his collar. He wore a gray and black t-shirt, the same thing he seemed to wear all the time around Barbara and her family. She thought about raiding his closet, just to see if he even owned any other sets of clothing. Bruce continued as she explored this train of thought.

"But as far as plans go, right now the mansion isn't a big deal. I'm focusing funds more on community outreach programs."

"Oh, so a philanthropist, are we?" she asked in a teasing voice. Bruce scratched the back of his head, smiling though visibly out of his element.

"Yeah, I guess that's weird, right? Rich kid with limitless fortune wants to give half of it away? But… you've seen this city, Barbara. You've lived here." She looked at him with a bit of worry; he'd gotten serious very quickly. "You know that place, Crime Alley, Knife Alley, whatever they call it? That used to be one of the best neighborhoods in the city when I lived here; now it's a slum. All of Gotham's going to hell, and I feel like I need to do whatever I can to stop it."

The young Gordon girl nodded, and her lips wavered a bit. She hadn't realized it meant that much to him. She took another sip of the grape juice as she grasped in her mind for another conversation topic. She set the glass down and tried not to look too relieved when bringing up a new conversation point.

"So, back to school tomorrow, right?"

"That's right." Bruce affirmed. "Repairs are all done, I saw it myself a couple days ago."

"All that fire…" Barbara drifted off in her own thoughts. She still remembered the day Gotham High burned down vividly. How one of her closest acquaintances Garfield had become a mad arsonist. The fires he started completely destroyed the auditorium, and rendered nearly half of the building completely useless. They'd nearly had to rebuild the entire place, with significant assistance from none other than WayneTech Enterprises.

"You did a lot of the oversight for that personally, didn't you?" she asked her affluent friend. He nodded with a bit of a smile and took the last bite of his pork.

"Uh huh." he mumbled as he chewed. Barbara's face scrunched in disgust and urged him to finish chewing before he spoke again. He did so, and started talking. "I drew up the blueprints personally, brought in my own guys to do a lot of the construction, I even personally paid all the staff during their time off. It's like I own the place now."

Barbara set her fork down and let the corners of her mouth drop. "Bruce. You're scaring me." The boy had a devious look in his eye, like a child who had found the perfect scheme to steal all of that night's dessert and blame it on his brother. He remained like this only a moment, going back to that semi-placid, semi-cordial expression he more often showed. He stood, and walked over to the balcony, leaning over it. Barbara followed him. At the moment, the winding road out from the manor led out down the hill they were on and far into the suburbs of Gotham. Beneath them, the distant sounds of police sirens, music, and the hustle of city life could be heard. But closer, that was replaced by the tranquility of songbirds, gentle ocean winds and the rhythm of a waterfall somewhere out of sight. Barbara took in a deep breath and let it all sink in; the view was beautiful.

"You must really love living here, don't you?" she asked, not really thinking as she spoke. The words just drifted out of her mouth without input. She lazily looked over to Bruce to see him tightly gripping the metal railing. She was bewildered, at first, and looked at his face to see what was wrong. Bruce's face was taut and stoic; he was holding back on his emotions, she was certain of it.

She didn't do anything that night. He could tell her later, when he was ready.

They spent the rest of the day together continuing the tour, making sure to avoid any wandering dogs, before Barbara's father finally came for her at around 6:00 PM. He stood at the door waiting for her, and politely conversed with Alfred as the two said their goodbyes.

On the drive home, her father felt chatty. "So, how was the place? As big as I told you it'd be?"

"Bigger." Barbara said matter-of-factly. "But I don't think you ever mentioned a dog."

"A dog?" Jim asked, thinking it over. "No, I don't suppose I remember a dog. Why don't you tell me about it?"

The car ride, and the rest of the night when the rest of her family was involved consisted in its entirety of Barbara explaining the grandiose trappings of Bruce Wayne's home, and to her dismay watching them look on with absolute glee and neglecting any need to think of the person and not his money.

When they finally let her leave them, it was past 11:00 PM. Poor Barbara sighed, stripping and throwing on her pajamas in the span of precisely thirty seconds before tossing herself into bed to get what little sleep she could that night.

She wasn't sure what, but a feeling in her gut told her that her misfortunes at Gotham High were nowhere near over.


	2. Chapter 2

An October morning in Gotham City was like waking up and finding that hell had frozen over. The fact that this was also a Monday, and the first time any of Gotham High's students had been to school in a month brought down a cloud of misery so thick, commuters wondered if there was some city-wide plague spouting miasma into the air. Not the least of these weary children was Barbara Gordon, who at that moment found herself in her room, selecting an outfit for the day. At the moment, she was wearing three layers of clothing, the outermost was a thick maroon turtleneck. Style could wait until spring. In her left hand she clutched a blue jacket, and in her right, a red one. Both were the same material, but the red one felt heavier. Naturally, she selected that one.

She opened up her closet and threw the blue jacket back in. That weekend, she and her father had made a long overdue trip to the library, and brought back the veritable tidal wave of books that usually awaited her in the mornings. Now, even at its worst all the stacks of literature could do was harass her feet. With the issue of clothing resolved, she stepped out into the hallway. The same grayness as always, with the same pictures. She looked at them fondly as she passed; maybe her family's lives would never be as happy again as those little sprites in the photographs of the past. But that didn't mean they couldn't be happy at all. She noticed another change as well, beyond her mood; the hallway seemed darker than normal. The lamp hanging above her wasn't on, as usual in the morning, and she could tell that less light was leaking in from the other rooms. It was getting darker in the mornings; that was one of the worst parts about winter in Gotham city. The darkness invited all sorts of seedy, criminal elements to the town, moreso than usual.

For once, though, it didn't worry Barbara very much. Something told her that the crooks would find a different city waiting for them this year. She walked down the stairs into the kitchen, seeking out her breakfast. But as she went, she found that there was no sound of sizzling bacon; no smoke from burnt toast. Not even a hint of that god-awful pumpernickel. She peeked her head in through the little arch that served as the entrance and found the only occupant of the room was her little brother James. The brown-haired, mop-headed boy sat at the table busily chewing on a pop-tart as he played some game Barbara didn't care enough to recognize.

"Uh… where's Mom and Dad?" she asked him worriedly. James didn't even bother to look up, and pointed to a sticky note on the fridge. Barbara approached it and peeled it off, reading it aloud.

"_Dear Barbara,_

_Your father's at the station, lots of paperwork to be done after the drug bust last week. I'm getting groceries. Will be back soon to pick up James, can you take bus to school?_

_Love, Mom"_

"Of course…" the weary redhead said with a grimace. She crumpled up the note and tossed it into the trash as she walked past James. She muttered a quiet goodbye to him and walked up to the front door. Taking the bus on a day like this? Madness, Barbara thought. What kind of sadistic freak subjects their own daughter to the city bus, on an October morning, on a Monday, in Gotham City?

The second she opened the door, the city greeted her with its most bitter, cold wind that it could find. Even under her multiple layers, she could feel a thousand little cold knives pricking her. She shut the door behind her, absolutely envying her runt of a brother. She almost missed being that age; didn't have to wake up so early, didn't have to worry about taking the bus; as much as she enjoyed the freedom of being a teenager, there were certainly perks to being the baby of the family too.

Of course, all of those thoughts were buried under the blazing desire to track down Snow Miser and strangle him to death with her own two hands.

It was a short walk to her bus stop, only a few minutes counting for the wind resistance. As she went on her way, it was hard to miss just how empty the streets were that morning. Even on this day and time, any other month it seemed like there were at least a few crazies running about before the sun was quite ready to get up. But now, the only occupant of her avenue was she.

Her timing was impeccable, as the bus rolled up the moment she came to a halt at the designated area. The door slowly hissed open, and she climbed in, tossing a few coins as payment before wandering back to find a seat. The rows were mostly empty, only a couple of heads sticking up over seats. A bunch of boring, gray hats and a single very greased head of hair…

"Oh no." she whispered to herself. Apparently it wasn't quiet enough; whoever it was perked up the moment she said it, and sure enough J's curious face peeked into the aisle, taking in her image before nearly shrieking in surprise.

"Babs!" he shouted in a voice that sounded so genuinely happy she decided he must have been mocking her. J threw himself out of his seat and met her where she stood, forgoing a handshake and throwing his arms around her, patting her on the back as he began to talk. "Oh, you won't BELIEVE the times I've had since, you know, the school burned down and all. Say, weren't you with the Batman when it happened?"

Barbara looked at him like he was insane. Frankly, that was mostly because he was. "You saw me get trapped in the same place as him, J. Remember?"

J pondered it a moment, before snapping his fingers as he recalled it. "Oh-ho, that's right! You, Bats, and the Firefly getting a little mano a mano… y mana? Ah, who cares, it's all a buncha moonspeak anyway. So!"

He rustled around in his pockets and pulled up a pencil and a notepad. Dear Lord, Barbara thought. He'd been waiting for this, hadn't he? Before she could protest the boy slid her down into a seat next to him, and he gazed at her with an intense, bright smile. "You have no idea how much I've been dying to ask you a few questions, Babs, but nobody knew how to get ahold of ya! I was about to go hold up a bank or something, ask your dad about it downtown." Barbara groaned, with no effort to show her disdain for the bad joke. J, on the other hand, cracked up at his own humor. It wasn't long before he got back to his current focus.

"If you don't mind me asking, Babs, I was wondering if you could give me the story of what went down after we got separated. Everybody knows Batman threw the crazy crook out to the cops, but nobody knows the _how. _Except, hee-hee, you, of course. I mean, is it true? Was the Firefly really the ol' Commissioner's kid? Was he really some kind of superpowered, high-tech monstrosity? Were he and the Bat really throwing around lockers and desks like walled up paper? WERE THEY REALLY TWENTY FEET HIGH AND BREATHING FIRE?"

Barbara leaned back, an expression of confusion and terror on her face as J suddenly calmed down, scratching his lower lip as he mused. "Wait a minute, I'm thinking of _dragons _again, aren't I?"

Barbara gave him a moment to think, before slowly adding her own words. "I… don't understand; why do you want to know all of this?"

"Well, for the school paper, of course!" J said in a tone so matter-of-fact that Barbara wondered if there was some billboard in Gotham High she had missed explaining this factoid to her. J held up his pencil, pointing it towards the sky above in a triumphant manner. "Once I publish my breakout story on the Great Tale of Batman, I'll be the most renowned ace reporter ever to walk the halls of Gotham High!"

"And also, the first." Barbara added in a sarcastic tone. J turned her way and quite literally growled at her like a dog in scolding. She quickly shut up with the sarcasm, and after some continued prodding began to repeat the entire story of how she had been there for the final moments of the fight between Batman and Firefly. With all said and done, the story took the rest of the bus ride, and as she spoke the closing sentence the bus doors hissed opened in front of the school. J shook Barbara's hand vigorously and stepped into the aisle, traipsing out and towards the school.

Barbara followed, sighing in relief that she was done with that maniac for the day. Tempting fate though it may have been, she couldn't stop asking herself how the day could get any more taxing.


	3. Chapter 3

The clock on the wall of Professor Doll's classroom ticked by ever so slowly as the minutes passed. He droned on and on about subjects that no one present could really bear to pay attention to. The word "Euphrates" was mentioned once or twice, but that was the only stand-out section of the lecture. Barbara sat at her desk, tapping a pencil in rhythm with the ticking second hand. She looked over at the seat by the window. Empty. It was odd. She'd never been his friend, and certainly had little in the way of sympathy after his rampage through the school, but it was kind of sad to her to think that even at that very moment Garfield was rotting in a prison cell.

A sudden rap on the whiteboard drew everyone's attention. Doll glared at them all, clutching a paper sent down by the office, presumably. "Unfortunately, it seems today's lesson is being interrupted by some upstarts with an announcement for you all." He coughed to clear his throat, and read the announcement in a voice even more boring than his usual shtick.

"On October 11th, all students are hereby encouraged to participate in Gotham High's annual Talent Show and Competition. Any student may audition, and compete for the grand prize of a $500 cash sum, and the coveted Gotham High—urgh—'Talent Trophy'." As Doll smacked his forehead reading the dreadfully corny paper, conversations were already starting up. To her left, Eddie and J were talking about something.

"Please, J!" the boy pleaded. Apparently Barbara had missed something. "It's not normally required of me to turn to others for academically-related matters, but my mastery of the verbose does NOT translate well to stage!"

J mused on this and scratched his chin a bit. "Yeah, I've seen that in action kid. But I'm really not seeing the motivation here, you know? I mean, I suppose I could use my cut of the money to buy a pony or something, but, where would I keep it?"

"You don't understand!" Eddie insisted. "My father, well, he's very… encouraging of me to enter these competitions with cash prizes. If I were to miss that opportunity, or heaven forbid _fail_, he might…"

Barbara watched intently. J's eyes opened a bit wider as the boy seemed to get the implications of what he was being told. More sense than Barbara had given him credit for. He sighed, exasperated and patted Eddie on the head, assuring his dog that it would be all right. "Okay, fine. You got me. I'm a sucker for kids with daddy issues." He slung his arm around Eddie's shoulder. "You and me, we'll make the best vaudeville duo to hit the stage ever since that tragic accident took the Third Stooge from audiences everywhere."

With a sudden yank, Eddie was pulled from his seat by J, and dragged towards the door. Professor Doll tossed a ruler at them, his head looking as red as a ripe tomato as he shouted. "What do you think you're doing? Sit down this instant!"

"Sorry teach!" J shouted as he threw open the door. "We've got an act to work on! Haahahahahoohoo-"

The rest of his laughter was cut short by the slamming door, punctuated by the dwindling footsteps of the troublemaker walking away. The rest of the students were left behind to gawk in awe as Doll burst from the room and pursued them. They stayed like this for a minute, and it slowly became clear that their teacher wouldn't be coming back for some time. They gradually returned to the conversations they had been having. Barbara got up from her chair and hopped over to sit next to Bruce, who was currently discussing last night's game with a rather brutish looking jock. The other boy glared at Barbara before he caught a glimpse of the Wayne boy's warning glance. He backed off, swiveling in his seat to speak with some others of his ilk while Bruce talked with Barbara. That is to say, he stared at her in silence.

"So…" she said.

"…Yeah?" he asked. Barbara wondered if he had simply not been paying attention, or if he'd fallen off one of his balconies and hit his head.

"The… talent show?" she stated, trying to prod some sort of reaction out of him.

"What about it?" Bruce questioned. The poor Gordon girl smacked her forehead.

"I swear," she told him. "sometimes it's like I'm talking to a wall with you! What's with all the mood swings you go through anyway?"

"It's a difficult time in my life." he informed her, deadpan. "My body's changing, I'm growing hair in new and unexpected places, and I get weird feelings in my tummy around girls."

Barbara felt a twinge of horror as her mouth fell agape while staring at her friend. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Bruce snorted a bit, and finally cracked a reassuring grin. "It's my comedy act, can't you tell?"

She looked at him with a disbelieving leer. "It needs work. A lot of work. In fact, I'd scrap it and start something new entirely."

The bell rang. The students of Mr. Doll's class scrambled for the door, leaving a few sparse pairs to discuss their upcoming acts together. Barbara and Bruce took a more leisurely pace out of the door, strolling to their next class as they tried to salvage their shambling, grotesque mockery of a conversation.

"What do you have planned for your act, Barbara?" the tall Wayne boy asked her. She shrugged.

"Nothing, I guess. I don't really have any talents."

Bruce cocked and eyebrow as he gave an aside glance toward her. "You're joking, right? Didn't you hit the bullseye on your first shot when I took your family to the archery range?"

"Yeah." she said with a bit of frustration hidden under her normal tone. "Then you split my arrow in half…"

Bruce turned his eyes forward, not willing to risk digging himself deeper. As they walked through the hallway, students were chatting with each other about the talent show. I think I've got the perfect act. Wait til you see me shred my guitar. I can tap dance, I guess. I can make Jell-O sculptures!

That last one caught Bruce's attention, and he glanced over at it just in time to bowl over a boy stepping back from his locker. The Wayne boy was nearly half a foot taller than the scrawny looking one, wearing a green t-shirt and black tie, of all things. Needless to say, the impact hitting the floor was only particularly painful to one of them.

"Gah! Please, please get off!" the boy shouted. Bruce quickly picked himself up, pulling the stranger up to his feet. He appeared to be shaking rather violently. He had extremely pale skin, and short-cropped blonde hair that was almost invisible, being such a similar tone to his body. His eyes were practically invisible behind thick glass lenses. Bruce extended his hand, trying at some sort of apology or greeting. Instead, all the boy did was shiver a bit more violently and dash away. Bruce and Barbara exchanged a glance.

"Who WAS that kid?" the girl asked.

"No idea." Bruce said with a shrug. He waved down a boy in a football team jacket on the other side of the hallway. "Hey, Jones!" he said. "Any idea who that kid that ran by was?"

"No idea." the athlete told him with a shrug. "Never seen him; he's probably new."

Bruce and Barbara grunted in affirmation of some sort before taking off again. "Another new kid?" Barbara asked. There was no excitement in her voice, just a sort of neutral curiosity.

"I'm amazed so many people want to START sending their kids to a school that was nearly burned to the ground." Wayne responded.

The two of them finally reached their next class, History. Students of all sorts shuffled in, ready to be bored to tears by their teacher.

The next forty minutes or so passed uneventfully. Note taking was at an all-time low, as the history teacher's desperate attempts at remaining interesting fell flat. It seemed like an entire eon and yet no time at all had passed when the glorious sound of a ringing bell hearkened the students to flee back into the halls. Bruce and Barbara went their separate ways to separate classes, as she went off toward study hall. Not such a bad thing, she told herself. It would finally be a chance to relax and try and get some idea of what she'd be doing for the talent—

"Hello, Babs!" came the shrill sound of Eddie sneaking up behind her. Her serene disposition was replaced by a scowl intense enough to melt steel.

"Crap."


	4. Chapter 4

12:24 AM, read the clock.

Commissioner Gordon rubbed his eyelids and sighed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good night's rest to steel him for this job. He could almost remember a time where he had wanted this job. In the safe recesses of his mind, he had a good laugh about that one. As an officer of the law, he should have known that no changes would come to his district easy.

As an honest cop in Gotham City, he should have known that it would be nigh-impossible.

Paperwork had rolled into his office all day, a steady stream of work work and more work, with a few migraines thrown in for good measure. An opened and half-spilled bottle of ibuprofen occupied the right half of his desk. His office was in similar condition, papers and files strewn about haphazardly as Jim attempted to find something, anything to help him out of his current mess.

The file that was on his mind had first come in that afternoon, at about 3 o'clock in the afternoon. He was supposed to be picking his daughter up from school. Instead, he found himself trapped at the police station as he read his worst nightmare coming true: a new crime boss had wormed his way into Gotham.

Between the Falcones and Sionis' mob running around and causing havoc, Gordon had begun to suspect that Gotham would never have a peaceful night again. Then again, crime rates _had _gone down. Though he hated to admit it, he had to give credit for that to the new freak in town. The Batman, everyone called him. Jim wasn't so sure about the name; he'd seen this Batman up close. He was just a normal man under that mask, bled like anyone else. But the crooks just didn't get that. They feared him and his ruthless nature. Every night, somewhere in the city criminals would be found beaten within an inch of their lives and tied up nice and handy for the boys in blue to bring back to the station. Whoever this guy was, he was damned effective. But not effective enough.

It had only been a few days' worth of activity, but there was definitely a new force out and about. The Falcones had suffered a major break-in, an entire warehouse emptied over the course of a night. And Sionis? Three of his boys were found dead and nailed to a billboard over on the waterfront. Neither side claimed responsibility for the attacks. It wasn't Batman's m.o. either. Or at least, Jim thought so.

Stroking his peppered mustache, the Commissioner reached into a drawer on the bottom left of his desk and came up with a single, surprisingly thick case file. "BATMAN" was printed on it in bold red ink. He cleared off some space on his desk and tossed the manila envelope down and flipped it open. Newspaper clippings, blurry photographs, and a dozen hackneyed psych profiles spilled out from inside, and he ran through them all. He'd only been around a month, but Gotham's new vigilante had been hard at work. No less than four dozen attacks on criminals of various levels of notoriety and crime.

He picked out one in particular. Two weeks prior, Batman had been sighted entering the old wharves, where by Gordon's intel a trade was to take place between the Falcone family and some out of town partners. Nobody knew what took place inside, but an hour and a half later the entire place was up in smoke, bombs going off left and right. Bombs, bombs of all things. Where were these scum getting high explosives from? Gordon ran his hands through his short-cropped peppered hair and gripped, sighing as he tried to let some of the stress flow out.

His face was clamped tight and shut, but he let a single eye strain itself open, peering out from behind his thick eyeglass frames to look at the one personal item he permitted himself to keep in his office. A photo of his family; taken almost three years ago, but despite its out-of-date nature, he cherished it. They were all smiling, in the park together. God, he wished he could be back in those days. Where everything seemed _right. _No freaks dressed up like flying rats, no teens snapping and setting schools on fire, no more nights where he'd have to leave his family worrying while he worked himself to death over paperwork, about a new enemy he didn't even know about.

He let out a long, ragged sigh. "You know," he said to no one in particular. "I didn't think this job would be so damned hard. But it'll all be worth it once this new wannabe gets what's coming."

_Clank._

"_Sounds like we're of the same mind, Commissioner."_

Gordon swiveled around in his chair, eyes shot wide and bloodshot as he tried to steel himself, and not scream in absolute terror like he wanted to. That deep, booming voice that carried like a whisper, and the growl underneath it. His efforts nearly failed him when his turn brought him to bear against a massive figure, draped in a black cloak that silhouetted him in the dim light of Gordon's office. Two white eyes stared at him from above, and a stoic mouth frowned down at him.

Batman.

"H-how did you-?"

Gordon only stammered out half of his question before his eyes narrowed. He'd find out how the Bat got into his office, all right. But he'd beat it out of him.

The Commissioner launched himself like a wild dog, growling in rage as he dove for the dark figure. Batman glided to his left and swung out a vicious, lightning-fast kick and caught Gordon in the side of his head. He slammed into a metal drawer, papers knocked loose and flying everywhere as an impressive dent was left in its side. The Bat approached him, expecting an incapacitated man.

He'd underestimated Jim. A solid, rising uppercut came from below at a remarkable speed for Jim's age. A blocky, meaty fist caught Batman right below the jaw, and the caped menace was lifted completely off of his feet. Jim wasn't done, though. Both of his arms wrapped around the Dark Knight, enveloping him in a vice of a hug and threw himself back and twisted around. The both of them crashed into Gordon's desk, wood splintering and shooting off in every direction as Batman took the brunt of the force. Jim felt a new wave of pain wash over his affected limbs, but bit his lip and drove the Bat further towards the ground. He hadn't spend his career bashing crooks on the streets to let himself get overpowered by a punk in a cape. Speaking of which…

Batman was wholly on the floor now, Gordon kneeling on top of him and now grapping his cape with his good left hand. He yanked it back, pulling Batman's head up nearly six inches, its force diametrically opposed to Jim's descending fist. A brutal blow walloped the Bat on the back of the head, and Jim thought he heard a snap as his captive's head shot forward and back towards the ground. Gordon tried that again, but Batman dodged his fist this time, and sunk his teeth into Jim's fingers as they came close.

A scream of shock and rage more than pain escaped Jim's searing lungs as fresh blood streamed out of his hand. He had no choice but to release the cape and try to punch Batman with his other fist. But by now the vigilante had recuperated, at least somewhat, and was ready to defend himself. An outstretched fist caught Gordon's hand as it came and squeezed tight; for a brief second Gordon was afraid his hand was going to break. Batman rolled to his left and onto his back, then loaded his legs and launched a two-legged kick into the Commissioner's gut. Jim was thrust back and jabbed his spine into his own doorknob to the office. He lurched forward in pain and caught the foot of the Bat jamming into his stomach and smashing him further into the door.

The doorframe couldn't take that much pressure, and buckled. Splinters and shards of glass were tossed out of Gordon's office and into the hall, where the Commissioner was slammed into a railing. Batman was out of the room in a hurry, sweeping up to Jim like a wraith; the older man snarled and lashed out with a hand, grabbing the Bat by a handful of his cape and dragging him up to the railing. With a downward shove, the invader's head smashed into the light wood rails; Jim pulled the head back up, and forced it down again. And again, and again, until the rail itself snapped. Batman was limp in his hands.

Gordon looked over the railing. They were on the second floor of a walkway above the main section of the GCPD building; several dozen cubicles, sparsely decorated, were all laid out below him. His frantic, adrenaline-buzzed eyes scanned the young man he was clutching with his fists at that very moment. "GrrrRRRRRAGH"

Something took over the Commissioner for that brief moment, a snap of rage inspiring him to toss the vigilante directly over the railing. Batman tumbled through the air and went crashing down directly over the cubicle of Officer Montoya. Gordon didn't bother with a tough front, and let his voice crack as he let out the longest, loudest groan he possible could, and leaned back against the wall. He sat there for a moment, letting the chaos process in his mind before he decided what to do next. Shakily, Jim rose to his feet and walked over to the staircase, muttering curses as joints popped.

A smart, stinging pain forced Batman's eyes open as he came to a rough waking. He felt no restraints, no bonds. He hadn't been out long; Gordon had no time to properly contain him. Or remove the mask, for that matter. He scanned the environment. Bottom level of the police department, in the ruined remains of a cubicle. Jim clutched him with one hand by where the cowl was attached to his cape, and a prepped fist – brass knuckles included – were prepared to come down and strike. The Bat tried to speak, but could only get out a confused groan. Jim rocked him with the knuckles. He felt blood trickling down his nose, nothing serious. He coughed, and spat "Jim, stop!"

Jim growled at him and spun a full one-eighty, slamming Batman's back into the outer wall of the station. "Stop calling me Jim." he told the Bat. The blank eyes of the so-called "hero" sat wide open for a moment. Gordon watched them closely as they blinked, once. Even in the lighting that the station gave, Batman's eyelids were pure black. Makeup? He grabbed the Bat with a hand on each shoulder, and pressed him hard against the wall. "Why are you here?" he said, putting extreme stress on that first word.

"I want to help you."

"Help? From you?" Gordon let a bit of a embittered chuckle out. "I don't need help from maniacs who think they're above the law."

"In this city," said Batman. "that describes everyone but you."

"No!" Gordon hissed, feeling a vein popping into view on his temple. "I don't believe that. I won't _ever _believe that. This city can change, and I'll give everything I can give to do it."

Batman nodded, and did something Jim didn't expect. The corners of his lips turned up, and the Bat gave the faintest hint of a smile. "That's why I want to help you, Commissioner."

Jim hesitated; faltered, even. As his senses screamed at him not to listen, he loosened his grip on Batman's shoulders, letting go entirely after another second's pause. He backed away a few steps, and for the first time really sized up the vigilante. He was broad-shouldered, and heavily muscled, but he was shorter than Jim. Not actually that much taller than his daughter, in fact. How old was this man? Was he a man, even? Or a boy?

Whoever he was beneath the cowl, Batman was clearly not permitting himself time to make similar observations of Gordon. As soon as he was free, he began striding down the halls of the station, motioning for Jim to follow. They made their way back to what Jim knew to be the rec room. He'd fought the creation of that for months, but in a town like Gotham the police expect a little cushioning with the job.

Batman got to the door, and swiveled the handle, pushing to no avail. "It's locked." Jim told him. He began to fish his pockets for the key, but stopped as the Bat reached a hand down to his yellow belt. One of the canisters detached from it, and he pulled off the cap and pointed it towards the lock from a distance of two inches. A bright red light emanated from the capsule, and a beam of it entered the lock, contorting to its shape as far as Gordon could tell. After a few seconds, the thing let out a low chiming sound, and Batman turned the capsule. The lock moved with it, and the door opened with another push.

The Bat walked inside, leaving the Commissioner staring dumbfounded at his tech. He forced himself to follow inside, but he was by no means paying any real attention to his earlier suspicions. He was fascinated by where someone could get their hands on a device like that.

The lights to the rec room lit up, illuminating a blue carpeted floor, with an old green couch stretching nearly from wall to wall. On the wall where anyone sitting on it would be viewing a flatscreen television hung proudly. The desk below it held a DVD player connected to it. That was what Batman approached, and silently placed a disk inside. He flipped on the TV, already set to that input. "Watch this." he told the Commissioner.

Dutifully, Jim stood behind the couch and watched the screen as it played. It was a warehouse, somewhere near the docks he assumed. The seedier elements of Gotham congregated there; it allowed them to bring in new shipments of goods with ease to their little empires. A quartet of men were hanging around the center, in a clearing from all the tightly-packed crates. Jim recognized from the suits that they were Falcone's boys. Sionis had his men dress casual; looser clothing for more flexibility. But the Falcones, they were obsessed with presentation as a bona fide mob.

He could barely make out their words, but in the quiet of a police station with only two men inside of it, it was doable.

"What did we do to get this crap job anyway?" one asked.

"Crap job? Boss said this place was vital to protect! That means we're important."

"No, it means we're WORM FOOD." a third one added in. "The supplies are all that matters, us guards can go and get eaten by a damned wolf so long as they stay safe."

"I… gee, I hadn't thought of it that way." the second one said, more subdued now. "B-but why is this so important?"

"It's ammo." the fourth one explained. "Ammo for heavy munitions. Anybody who gets their hands on this could take on the whole damned city."

"W-what?" the first one asked, dumbfounded. "Why does the boss want that sorta junk?"

"He _doesn't._" Number four explained. "We're playing keep-away."

"But from who—"

_KABOOM._

The screen was filled with dust and smoke, along with the sounds of gunfire as silhouetted figures stormed in. Falcone's men tried to draw their guns, and were rewarded with entire torsos riddled with bullets before they could fire so much as a single shot. When the last of them hit the floor, and the dust cleared, Gordon could see two new men standing atop the corpses of the last four. They were in suits, like the Falcones, but darker shades instead of the browns and reds they preferred; and he couldn't make out their features from the wide-brimmed hats they wore. One of them flipped open a phone and made a call.

"…Yeah, Cap. This is the retrieval team; Falcone's boys went down without a fight… Yeah, real wimps; this town'll be ours all right. Cops can't stop these chumps? What a joke… Yeah, yeah, definitely, send 'em down right now. Scarface is gonna FLIP when he sees all this…"

The video cut out there.

Gordon scratched his chin, still shocked by what he had seen. "Scarface…" he mused, trying to place the name. He'd seen the movie, but no gangster around Gotham had ever gone by that moniker. "Any idea on who this 'Scarface' is, Bat…man?"

He looked all around. In the time the video had played, Batman had slipped out without a sound. Gordon walked out into the halls and gave a cursory glance; but it was only to satisfy his own need to make an effort. He already knew the Bat was already long gone. He slowly took the DVD out of the player, and shut the door to the rec room behind him as he made the trudge back to his office. He was done for the night; investigating this new crime boss could wait for at least eight hours.


	5. Chapter 5

1:00 AM. The storm had started only ten minutes ago, and already young Arnold Wesker found himself wrenched awake and forced to sit in shivering silence as the rain pounded on the roof of his little home. His parents were sound asleep, as always. Always. The space beyond his bed was dark and intimidating, but there wasn't much there. Maybe four feet, and then a wall. No posters. Arnold had little in the way of interests. There was a small desk tucked in the corner, with an old laptop plugged into the wall. A battered brass lamp, currently switched off, was his only source of light. Some brilliant architect had managed to construct a bedroom with no windows; and that was where he slept. It was terrible to be alone in a room like this, during a storm, at night, in Gotham City.

But he wasn't alone. He was never alone.

"I… I have you, right, pal?"

He stared at the chair to the left of his bed. The little silhouette sat there, rigid and unmoving as it always did. His unbreaking vigil; through all the years one figure had never left his side.

"That's right, kid. Pals foreva."

Arnold smiled. His friend was the best. Maybe a little… overbearing, but he only had the boy's best interest in mind. He always had. Even after his parents had forgotten about him. Too lazy, too sleepy.

"Hey Arnold. How was the new school?"

"Oh, um, it was good. I met lots of new people."

"Talk to any of 'em?"

"Er… uh…"

"C'mon, kid, spit it out."

"Well, I apologized to one person… for bumping into him."

The little man in the chair sighed. "Kid, you're killin' me. How're you ever gonna get over this funk if you don't get out and do a little meetin'n'greetin?"

Arnold felt a little sweat break out, embarrassed. "Well, I mean, there's a talent show coming up. I-I guess I could do that?"

A little light from the storm flashed out in the hallway, giving a second of sweet illumination to the room. The little man's pinstripe suit was an odd electric blue in that sort of lighting. "That's great. But you weren't gonna do it, were you?"

"W-what? Don't, uh, don't be silly pal! I was gonna do it, but I—"

"Hey, hey, hey! No buts!" The little man scolded. "Arnold, I'm just tryin' to help. You remember the LAST school they sent you to, right?"

Arnold's eyes dilated. He remembered. All that violence. The names, the insults, the daily beatings. The sheer _torture _of it all came screaming back to his mind.

"Y-yeah. I remember."

"And you don't wanna have that happen again, right?"

"R-right."

"So! Then all you've gotta do is get out and make a few danged FRIENDS, y'know? Open up! Be assertive! Tell ya what, I'll go that extra mile and even give you some advice, OK? I'll even help you with the talent show, capiche?"

"Y-you'd really do that?" Arnold asked, elated at the thought.

"Of course! Anythin' for my pal!" the little man responded. The thunder was getting louder as the conversation went on. "Just think of it, pal…"

Arnold slipped out of bed and moved to his desk, flipping on the light switch so he could watch his pal more closely as he explained the lessons. He looked back at his little friend sitting on the chair: old-fashioned fedora, pin-striped suit, and classically oversized head, with a little scar running down his right eye. The puppet was downright menacing in that dim light. Arnold thought it looked pretty cool.

"Can you imagine it, kid? I mean, really PICTURE IT with me now: Arnold Wesker and Scarface, Ventriloquists Nonpareil!"


	6. Chapter 6

_BRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING_

At long last, the lunch bell rang. Barbara Gordon practically sprang from her chair in the mad dash for the cafeteria. Her seat was the closest to the door in this class, so she managed to beat everyone else in her room. That, unfortunately, did little to stop the veritable tidal wave coming from every _other_ classroom in Gotham High. The theater buffs down the hall were busy being crushed under the thunderous footsteps of Weylon Jones and his football meatheads. Cobblepot took meals in his personal room, having them hand-delivered by the insanely huge kid with the cap. "Seriously, does that guy even go here?"Barbara had asked Eddie the day before, observing him struggle to use the vending machine with his meaty fingers. He was muttering to himself in some foreign language. "The guy's got a goatee growing, and he's taller than my dad!"

A bit closer to home was the Junior's math class. Probably the most orderly bunch in the entire school, if out of fear alone. The kid with the politician's haircut and neatly-pressed clothes did one heck of a job keeping his peers in line. She wondered how Dent did it sometimes.

But none of those chumps mattered right now. Her only challenge was getting past her worst nightmare.

"Freshmen!" Barbara shouted as she scrambled out into the hall. The door directly in front of her burst open, and an onslaught of snot-nosed brats piled out into the hallway like a pack of wild dogs. Rather, that's what Barbara saw; she needed any and all coping mechanisms to not realize that most of them were as tall as she was, if not taller.

As they all rushed down the hall, Barbara jockeyed for her spot. She wouldn't' be the last in line today. She bobbed and weaved, as she'd trained herself to do all through her freshman year, ducking between various students and making careful cuts through the bodies to put herself at the head of the pack.

"Looks like I win today, squirts—" her victory was short-lived, as a well-placed foot stuck itself out in front of her and tripped the poor girl flat onto her face. She moved too late, and by the time she'd recovered the entire pack had moved past her. Through the wave of bodies, she saw a single figure, a kid with short black hair with two long locks framing his punk's face, giving a taunting wave to her as he went out of sight.

"That… twerp!" Barbara growled, punching the floor tiling in frustration.

"Whoa, watch it!" a familiar voice said as it passed. The Gordon girl was snapped out of her rage and look up to see Bruce looking down at her, concerned. "I paid out of pocket to replace these floors, you know."

Barbara felt herself blushing like a rose as her friend picked her up, setting her on her feet as they took a more leisurely pace towards the cafeteria. "I don't know why you're in such a rush." Bruce told her. He patted his back pocket, where the wallet coveted by every student in Gotham High rested. "You're pretty much guaranteed a good seat when I'm around."

Barbara groaned as they descended the staircase before them. They could already hear the raucous chatter coming from the cafeteria down the hallway on the ground floor. "Does it never bother you how flagrantly you flaunt your wealth around here? It's dangerous!"

"I don't see how." Bruce retorted, oblivious to the insanity of his own statement as they hit the end of the staircase. To their immediate right, a long line into the lunch room was already materializing; Wayne felt no fear from such a daunting mass of bodies, and taking Barbara by the hand led her through the throng as she kept talking. Nobody dared to stop him.

"What in the world is _that_ supposed to mean?" Barbara asked, her voice cracking a bit out of bafflement. "Bruce, if you don't keep that thing in your pants—" she blushed again, as Bruce and more than a few passing students looked at her. "… really bad choice of words. If you don't keep your _money_ to _yourself_, you're gonna get mugged!"

"Oh, I've been mugged." Bruce told his friend, whose embarrassment was replaced by a face denoting something more along the lines of bewildered terror. The boy's face was thoughtful, maybe even wistful as he held up a pair of fingers. "Twice, in fact."

"W-what?" Barbara exclaimed. "How can you not get what I'm telling you? You've seen what happens!"

"Barbara." Bruce stated, looking her square in the eye as they passed through the door to the cafeteria. It was a hive of activity, dozens of students buzzing about between tables, socializing in their own ways. "I know how to defend myself. No punk with a gun is going to hurt me." Then, he smiled. "Just trust me, all right? Come on, I see a free table."

Barbara was defenseless against the insistent tugs of Bruce's hand, and she found herself dragged over to a circular table at the back of the cafeteria. Few people were located around here; only a strange, bald kid Barbara had seen experimenting in the science lab, chatting with one of the cheerleaders, and Eddie and J discussing some odd plans for their act. Barbara couldn't make out the words, but judging by J's hand motions, their show would involve birds, pumpkins, and the atom bomb.

"Hey, look." Bruce said as he sat down; his finger was pointed at a corner wedged even further into a room corner than theirs was. It was the little kid that the Wayne boy had slammed into the other day; he was alone at his table, barely picking at a few scraps of food he'd brought in a bag.

"Oh, it's that kid." Barbara noted, now digging into her sandwich. "I still don't know his name, ever find it out?"

"Yeah, I went asking around yesterday. His name's Arthur, some transfer student from a place upstate called Bludhaven."

"What kind of maniac names a city Bludhaven?" Barbara said, asking the obvious question. Bruce shrugged, so she dropped the issue. But she kept watching Arthur. A little pang of sympathy was hitting her. "He's eating all alone."

"Yeah, he is." Bruce agreed.

"I think we should go sit with him." Barbara announced. Bruce eyed her curiously.

"Why?"

She wasn't quite sure why, but that set something off in Barbara's mind. "What do you mean why? He's a new kid, he's probably too scared to talk to anybody."

Bruce nodded, and serenely went back to devouring his own lunch. "Right. And he should learn to deal with that himself."

Self-righteous fury was sparked in the girl's chest. "What kind of bullcrap is that? We're not just going to let him sit back there and rot because he's new!"

"I'm not saying that!" Bruce tried to clarify. "I'm just saying, he should learn to stand on his own feet, get out and talk to people."

"Oh, like it's that easy?" Barbara asked, with a bit of a snobbish huff thrown in.

"Yeah, actually, it is!" Bruce snapped back, throwing his hands in the air; his own temper was starting to flare a bit. "I was a new kid here too, remember? And everybody loves me!"

Barbara groaned and slammed her hands into the table. "Nobody here loves you! They JUST. LOVE. YOUR. MONEY!"

Something shifted in Bruce's eyes. Barbara couldn't place what, but something changed. His hands froze in the air for a moment, and slowly were lowered down below the table. His head bowed a bit, so that she could no longer see his eyes as he stared down at the half-eaten lunch in front of him. Barbara bit her lip as she realized her mistake, and a tide of regret surged up.

"Bruce, I'm—" she began, but Bruce cut her off.

"Do you love my money, too?"

That one hurt. Barbara could feel the sting in her chest as he said. _Oh, God, I screwed that up._

Desperate to think of what to say, Barbara reached out with her hand and grabbed Bruce's. He looked up at her, and she shook her head. "No, I don't. If you showed up tomorrow dirt-poor, dressed in rags, you'd still be the same Bruce Wayne to me."

Bruce's face was stoic, but he nodded at her. He gathered up his lunch and tossed it into an adjacent trash can before rising up his feet. He began to walk away, but he turned back to look at Barbara. The faintest hint of a smile was on his face. "You should go talk with Arnold; I'll be in the band room."

"Doing what?" Barbara asked, as the Wayne boy turned and began to depart.

He threw up a hand as a wave goodbye and said back at her, "Working on my new talent for the competition."

The fiery redhead felt a huge weight lift off of her shoulders. As she gathered up her own things, she made a mental note to work on her temper in the future. That had nearly been a huge mistake. Once it was all disposed of, Barbara looked back at the new boy's table; sure enough, he was still there, and looked like he hadn't taken a single bite. She approached, and took a seat opposite of him. If he was looking at her she couldn't tell behind those glasses frames, so thick they were practically opaque with the light reflecting off them.

Of course, if she were waiting for the first word to come from him, she'd approached the wrong boy. Arnold remained silent, visibly shivering a bit as he kept his eyes—as far as Barbara could tell, behind those glasses—fixed on his food. She gave an internal sigh, and realized that she'd be pulling the weight in this conversation.

"So, uh, is this seat taken?" she asked. The boy shook his head once, and returned to marveling at his uneaten food. Barbara suppressed a groan and leaned onto her hand. This would be work. She settled on a question that couldn't be answered yes or no.

"Why are you sitting back here by yourself?"

"Um…" Arnold looked like he was caught off-guard, either from a pretty young girl initiating conversation with _him_ or by the fact anyone was acknowledging him at all. She wasn't quite sure. "I'm, er, I'm very new here…" His voice was quiet, almost like a whisper. But this was good; he was talking, sharing information, right? Barbara tried to press a little further.

"Oh, ok. What's your name? I'm Barbara, by the way."

"Uh, hi, Barbara. I'm, uh, Arnold." The boy twiddled his fingers a bit, trying to find some way out of this awkward situation while Barbara hungrily chomped down on the last bits of her sandwich. By the time she'd swallowed she was already talking again.

"So, you're new here, huh? Where'd you go before?"

"Oh, um, a place in Bludhaven High."

"Uh… huh. I think I might have a cousin up there, maybe you knew him?" That was a bold-faced lie. As the one subject she did _not _read on extensively, Barbara knew so little of her state's mapping that third graders would be embarrassed for her; she couldn't tell you where her relatives were to save her own life.

"N-not… not very likely." Arnold responded, starting to speak a little bit more. "I didn't know a whole lot of people there."

"Why's that?"

He shrugged. "I just… didn't."

Barbara nodded, contemplating that thought as she downed a can of soda. As she took in a gasp after the last gulp, she asked, "So why did you move down here?"

"Hm? Oh, um, I didn't move." Arnold assured her. She eyed him curiously, and the boy felt a few beads of sweat form as he elaborated. "M-my parents and I, we always lived in Gotham. I just, erm, stayed in Bludhaven for school in the week. I came down here to stay with them on weekends. Now, well, I always live here."

"Oh, okay." Barbara replied. She cast an eye towards the clock; only twenty minutes into the lunch hour. She certainly had plenty of time, but something told her the boy wasn't going to be taking the lead in their conversation any time soon. She grasped at straws in her head for another topic.

"You mentioned your parents; what are they like?"

Arnold gulped, looking quite plainly shaken as he stagnated in his seat. "Um, they're… sleepy. They sleep a lot."

_That_ certainly wasn't a description Barbara saw coming. Arnold wasn't looking at her, so he couldn't pick up on the bafflement on his companion's face. "…Sleepy?"

"Yes. Very sleepy. Detached." Arnold picked up a fork to twirl around his food, while Barbara was left feeling very distressed. She thought she knew what he was getting at.

"They are, are they?" she asked, somewhat concerned. Arnold nodded, confirming her suspicions. If his parents were as neglectful as the boy's words seemed to be hinting at, it was no wonder he seemed so strange. Barbara contemplated this, thinking of what she might be able to say. He wouldn't react well to a direct confrontation, most likely. But maybe dropping a few hints…

"Oh, um, I'm sorry to hear that." she said to her acquaintance. "My dad's the Commissioner of the Gotham Police. Pretty cool, huh?"

Rather than perking up, or anything of that nature, Arnold immediately broke into a sweat. Little beads of water began to trickle down his face, as Barbara was left mentally kicking herself. _That _certainly didn't work. She would need a new angle. She gave a look at the clock, first, and realized with a jolt that time was passing far more quickly than she had realized. Whatever she was going to do, it'd have to be after school. By luck, that sparked an idea; she didn't have anywhere in particular to go today, and with the rest of her family out visiting her father—he'd checked himself into the hospital for a few minor injuries after tripping on some stairs in the station—she had plenty of time to get him out into the city a bit, maybe make him open up some more.

"Hey, Arnold." she said. He trembled a bit more as he moved his eyes up to look at her. "Wait around after school, all right? If you've moved back to Gotham, I think you should get a proper look at the city; I'll show you around, all right?"

Arnold leaned back a bit, hands shaking as an assortment of klaxons and alarms went off in his head. "Uh, I-I don't know ab-about—uh, what I mean… I can't." he stuttered out. "I r-really need to be somewhere, and…"

"Come on!" said Barbara, putting on her cheeriest smile. "It'll be fun, I promise."

For a moment, Arnold sat in silence, nervously weighing all the options in his head. The bell rang in the background, and the cavalcade of students began to toss away their food and head back to class. Finally, Arnold gave a firm nod. "A-all right. I'll meet you by the sign."

"Awesome!" the red-haired girl exclaimed, picking up her things as she rose from her seat. "You won't regret it Arnold, this is going to be great!"

She gave a small wave as she walked away, returning to the doldrums of the school day. As she left, the worlds of Arnold's friend echoed around his mind.

…_open up…assertive…friends…_

When no one was looking, a timid smile crept onto Arnold's face as he repeated that last word. He even giggled a bit as he did. "Friends."

Back in the band room, Bruce Wayne sat at a chair, clearing his throat after his latest attempt. The packet he'd printed off last night was sitting on a music stand in front of him, the bars and stanzas laid out neatly to read. He was constantly flipping between two pages as he tried to make a selection on which he'd be using, when suddenly his phone began to ring.

In a flash, he snatched the device and gave a look at the screen, to see who was calling. It was only when he recognized the number that he gave such a quick press to the "answer" button.

"Alfred, I'm alone. What's happening?"


	7. Chapter 7

Students began to eagerly file out of their classrooms as the last bell of the day rang. Chatter grew and became a low roar in the halls, as Barbara Gordon went to her locker. She kept an eye open for any classmates that she recognized, but today they all seemed to have disappeared somewhere. It was odd; Bruce always met her by her locker at the end of the day. But today, he was nowhere to be seen. She sighed, and grabbed her bags. All she could do was hope he wasn't getting himself into too much trouble. She slammed her door behind her as she took a brisk walk out to the front entrance.

The October air of Gotham City bit her unguarded face as soon as the doors were opened. The chilling winds were warmer than the frozen, unholy phenomena that came in the early mornings; that didn't mean it was actually warm, though.

Nobody in their right mind stayed out here for very long, so there were only a couple scatterings of stragglers hanging out on the front steps. A few daring skateboarders were still attempting tricks in t-shirts and jeans. Barbara shook her head in disgust at them; one of the lunks lost a finger to frostbite last year, it baffled her how they could still be going at it.

One student caught her eye: Arnold was standing by the large sign, a stone-cut logo of Gotham High in the grass about twenty yards from where she stood. The Gordon girl tried not to laugh at his comically oversized yellow parka. The little boy inside was nearly invisible for all the fluff. She gave him a wave as she approached, and he nervously returned the gesture. "So," she asked. "all set to go?"

"Um… I guess." the boy replied, tugging on the straps holding the bag on his back. "W-where are we going, anyway?"

Barbara smiled and gently patted the boy's back, pushing him a bit to get him moving. "Don't worry about that. I know a little Sicilian place up on Greathorn Boulevard; lots of the ritzy kids hang out there after school. I've never been though, so it should be fun!"

They walked down the path to the bus stop, and after a few seconds Barbara picked up that Arthur hadn't responded. She looked to her right, to see him lagging behind by about a step; he seemed more nervous than usual.

"Is everything all right, Arnold?"

He glanced up at Barbara, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Y-you said this was on Greathorn?"

She nodded.

"W-well… isn't that place dangerous? I heard lots of, well, _nasty_ sorts hang out there."

"Only after dark, Arnold." Barbara assured the boy. She tried her best at a maternal smile as he looked at her. "You're new to living in Gotham full-time, but you'll get into the swing quick. Most places are safe so long as you clear out before it gets dark."

Arnold was silent for a moment. "But that's changing… isn't it?"

Barbara chuckled to herself as they came up to the bus stop. There was no miraculous arrival the moment they did, so instead the both of them sat down on the frigid bench to wait. The red-haired girl smiled as she thought about what her new friend had said. "Yeah… I guess it is changing. Crime's taken a big hit ever since Batman showed up. Some neighborhoods have been cleared out entirely."

She looked over at Arnold, who was currently breathing into his hands, and rubbing them for warmth. "I wonder how long that will l-last?"

"What do you mean?"

Before the small boy could reply, the squeak of bus brakes in cold Autumn air caught the attention of them both. Their bus had arrived. They both quickly hopped from their seats and climbed on board, eager to get into some minor warmth that a vehicle could provide.

The pair, led by Barbara naturally, relegated themselves to the back corner of the bus to speak in private. Barbara tossed her bag under the seat, but Arnold clutched onto his as he took the window seat. Barbara squeezed in next to him, and looked at him to hear his explanation.

He hesitated, biting his lip for a moment before saying anything. "W-well, what I mean is, I've been hearing rumors around my home… new people. _Bad_ new people."

"What," Barbara asked, a little confused. "You mean like gangs?"

Arnold nodded. Barbara scratched the side of her head, thinking about this; her father hadn't mentioned anything about new gang activity. Maybe this was all just hearsay. Of course, there was also the possibility that things really _were_ that bad. She wouldn't put it past her father to keep her family from knowing how difficult his job was getting, for their sake. If she was going ot come to a conclusion, she needed to know more.

"Arnold, who's telling you this stuff?"

"Oh, uh… my friend." Arnold said, averting eye contact. "The only _real_ friend I've had since I came to Gotham."

"Oh."'

Barbara felt an awkward chill enter the conversation. She had known he had to have been lonely, but to hear him say it bluntly like that was kind of shocking. "What's your friend like, Arthur?"

That seemed to be the secret password. The boy's face immediately lit up like a neon sign, and he quickly re-established eye contact as he started to gush. "Oh, h-he's awesome! He's cool, a-and slick, and he's really smart too! Everything I'm _not_, I guess. We do everything together; he's been looking out for me for years. H-he's even helping me out for my talent show act!"

Barbara didn't particularly appreciate Arnold beating himself up like that, but it was good to hear he had someone for emotional support. Of course, she was more distracted by the last thing he said. "You have a talent show act?"

"Yeah!.. Well, sort of. It was mostly his idea. He said, um, that I need to be more forward—progressive, or something. And, that this would help."

"Oh, okay." said Barbara, with a light smile. "Well, you're already better off than me or Bruce. I'm not particularly talented, and Bruce… well, Bruce is in his own little world half the time."

"T-that sounds nice." replied the boy. Barbara was going to question his intent when the bus suddenly screeched to a halt. She looked out the window and realized this was their stop. Grabbing the sleeve of Arnold's parka, she retrieved her bag and pulled him to his feet. The both of them departed the bus, stepping out in front of a modernized restaurant that took up the bottom two floors of a particularly impressive skyscraper. The name _Sandoval's_ was emblazoned on top of a Sicilian flag. The Gordon girl could already see several fellow students heading inside.

"Come on, let's get inside."

The both of them stepped into a luxuriously decorated environment. The entire place was exquisitely colored with deep reds with the occasional green accents. In front of them was a podium with a hostess waiting to greet them, dressed in a halfway point between formal and work clothes. Behind her stretched a full floor of tables, constantly being patrolled by legions of waiters carrying trays to and fro. There was a strip about thirty feet wide down the center of the restaurant where, rather than a low roof, they were gifted with a high-rise ceiling with reflective glass. This was because the restaurant had a second floor. At the back of the enormous room, a staircase stretched back, ascending half the height between floors between splitting into two staircases; one went left, and one went right, to two separate platforms connected by a single walkway in the middle; it served as both the second floor of the restaurant and the roof to most of the first level.

Barbara gave a low whistle as she let the sights sink in, and she could almost feel Arnold shivering a bit. "As fancy as they say, isn't it?"

They stepped forward to the hostess; Barbara recognized her as a neighbor, Blanca, that had graduated Gotham High the same time she passed Freshman year. Blanca did not seem to share the recognition, as she looked at the Gordon girl like any other customer with a plastic smile.

"Good afternoon! Will it just be the two of you today?"

Barbara and Arnold both nodded, and after grabbing the appropriate number of menus and silverware their hostess led them back into the restaurant. They were given a seat near the staircase, just slightly under the platform. From here Barbara could see the stairs weren't solid; there was actually a considerable crawlspace underneath them. Shrugging, she listened as Blanca explained that their waiter would be out to greet them and get their drinks shortly. She left, leaving her and Arnold to remove their coats and take their seats.

The strange blonde boy immediately buried his face in his menu, scanning the entrees with fervor. Barbara gave a few cursory glances at her own, but was more interested in learning more about this boy. She tried to think of a question, when a particularly gripping one came to the forefront of her mind.

"Arnold?"

The boy cautiously lowered his menu a bit, so his eyes were staring over the top of it at her.

"What was it like in Bludhaven?"

"What?.." She could already see the fear that innocent question had put in his eyes. She scrambled to salvage it.

"Well, you chose to come to Gotham perfectly, even though you already had yourself set up there. Why?"

Arnold paused, lowering his menu down to the table. Barbara could now see his face fully, and realized his lip was quivering. His eyes began to leak water as he recounted memories she could only imagine.

"Bludhaven was… _awful. _There was so much violence, so much hatred an—and _yelling_. Daily beatings, hateful words, so much plotting and scheming and… I just, I had to get away." He lowered his head entirely, staring straight down at the table. "I couldn't live with it anymore."

Barbara sat in silence, a cold chill picking at her skin as she watched the boy in front of her break down. She could hear a few quiet sobs beneath the din of restaurant chatter. She moved her hand, only to see her vision start to blur. She blinked a few times, to get rid of the tears rapidly welling up. "Arnold…" she trailed off, unsure of what to say. He looked so hurt, so vulnerable.

It was times like these she wished she were more like her father. Dad always knew exactly what to say when things seemed darkest. Barbara took a deep breath, and felt her muscles tighten. She wasn't her father, but she could try to be like him. She reached out and grabbed hold of Arnold's hand; the boy stopped for a second, and looked up at her in confusion.

"Arnold," she began. "I'm sorry. It's awful that that happened; but there's nothing more you can do about the past. The future's still open, though, and I promise that if I can help it, nothing like that will ever happen to you again, ok?"

The boy in the thick glasses hesitated for a minute; now _he_ was unsure how to respond. But finally, he smiled just a little. "D-don't make promises you can't keep… but thanks."

Barbara smiled back at him, already feeling the mood lighten when a cough caught the attention of both teens. They looked over to see a skinny, pale man with spiked black hair and a thin mustache staring at them with somewhat awkward smile. "Uh… I could come back if I'm interrupting?"

A blush as red as fire overtook both Barbara and Arnold as they released their grip on each other and sat up rigidly straight in their seats. "No, no!" Barbara insisted. "We're fine! We're fine!"

The young man laughed, and made a pushing gesture with his hands. "Relax, I was just kidding! Heh, no need to sweat the small stuff; you should see the snogging I have to break up when it gets late around here. My name's Remil Sionis, I'll be your waiter tonight!"

Barbara greeted their waiter, but Arnold did not. Instead, a very visible shift in his newly freshened mood occurred. He looked nervous, like he'd seen a ghost. "S-Sionis?" he asked, chattering.

Remil groaned sarcastically and tapped the side of his head. "Ha, yeah, I know what you're thinking. Roman Sionis, the big bad mafia mogul? He's my uncle… unfortunately. Me, I just serve tables with a smile. So, what can I get you?"

Barbara tried to place her order, when suddenly Arnold grabbed her hand, shaking rapidly. "Arnold, what the heck are you—"

"B-B-Barbara!" he hissed. "We've gotta go! Right now, seriously!"

"What's gotten into you?" Barbara asked, starting to feel very confused and very nervous. "So his name's Sionis, what's the big—"

_KRAAKOOOOOOOOOOM_

Before Barbara could finish her sentence, the front of the restaurant erupted in a fiery rain of twisted metal and shrapnel. The hostesses near the front were launched to the ground filled with lead, and the patrons immediately bolted straight into panic. Their screams nearly concealed the shouts of a very, VERY angry man as he strode in through the smoke and flames.

"COME OUT, SIONIS!"


	8. Chapter 8

All at once, things seemed to descend into chaos. Barbara's senses were overloaded. First, there was the screaming. The furious shouts of the man striding through the smoke were barely intelligible over the cacophonous array of patrons, all shrieking, shouting, yelling and pleading for their lives. A terrible sloshing in Barbara's stomach began as she realized that there were likely fewer screams than there would have been, if the hostesses hadn't been so close to the door. _Blanca…_

Then, her eyes were filled with smoke. The force of the blast was phenomenal, as if a tank had fired into the building. Gray clouds billowed into every open space, choking out guests as they ducked for cover in the haze. Those nearest ground zero were just silhouettes after only a couple of seconds.

But then came the worst of it. The smell. Her nose was clogged with the scent of burning. Fire, smoke; she had forgotten it, but it was back, and it was _strong._ She tried to blink, and shook her head to escape the sensation, but when she opened her eyes, all she could see was the hallway of her own school burning to the ground. And a single, emaciated figure moving through the smoke towards her.

_Oh, god… oh god…_

The fantasy had her in its thrall, only to be ripped away as she felt a surprisingly strong grip on her hand, dragging her up out of her seat. As her eyes re-focused, she saw Arnold scurrying with her in tow, pulling along his bag with his free hand. "Come on, we need to hide before they see us!" he hissed. She looked up, and saw that he was leading the both of them back behind the grand staircase, just a few yards away now. He ducked and scooted under, pulling her along with, all the while her heart pounded like a jackhammer.

"What are they doing, why are they after—"

"_Shhh!_" the little blonde boy hissed, with a finger to his lips. "They'll hear us! Stay hidden! It's the only way!"

"Hidden from _who?_" Barbara asked, feeling very indignant about how the timid little boy had suddenly taken charge of the situation. She could feel he knew something; just not what that something was. Suddenly, her train of thought was cut off when the voice that had been shouting redoubled its efforts. Carefully, and against the whispered protests of Arnold, Barbara peeked out from behind the staircase to see what was happening.

A single man emerged from the smoke, wisps of it still trailing around his arms as he stepped into view. Whoever he was, she couldn't tell. Only his messy brown hair stuck out from the tight gas mask wrapped around his face. He was large, and heavily muscled; he could've been Special Forces, if he hadn't just blown up the entrance to a restaurant. He was decked in full combat armor, spray-painted black as the night. In his right arm, pointed up, he was cradling an assault rifle. In his left, he carried a remote control. In every direction, people were in the throes of utter panic. He tried to yell again, only to be drowned out by the chaos. Whoever he was, the man pinched his brow, clearly frustrated, and hefted his rifle.

"That's the way you want to be? FINE."

A horrendously loud cracking noise resounded off the walls, as a full-auto stream of bullets came spitting out the barrel of his rifle. The ceiling above them was painted with lead, the mirrored glass splintering and shattering in a discordant melody of tones. Shards came raining down from above, slashing across clothes and open skin alike. Blood flowed from dozens of shallow cuts as those exposed in the middle tried to move away. They were stopped when half a dozen more silhouettes came sprinting through the smoke. More men, dressed like the first, all wielding firearms in their hands as they spread out through the restaurant. Curses, shouts, and threats demanded that the patrons remained exactly where they were, and heaven help them if they moved a muscle. Two more figures double-timed through, and gave glances to the first man as they approached him.

"Get upstairs, and round 'em up. You know what he looks like."

The duo nodded, and took off at a jog to the staircase, pounding with their heavy boots as they ascended. Barbara felt a cold shiver run down her spine with each footstep, so heavy, and only a few feet away. Separated from her by nothing but six inches of metal and carpeting.

The sensation passed, and the men were muffled out of thought as they reached the second floor. She could hear more yelling from the two of them. Then, someone screamed back.

_BANG_

Barbara bit her lip to prevent a whimper from breaking through. Her eyes were strained open by sheer horror, and she could feel a bitter sting in the corners of her eyes. _Oh god, somebody make it stop!_

She could hear more going on the first floor. She took a deep breath, her heart pounding with all its might as she slowly peered back out to take another look. The men downstairs had spread out, and were picking out everyone dressed like a waiter. They were being smacked over their heads with the butts of assault rifles, dazing them as they were marched out to the center. Their fresh leather shoes cracked the glass shards beneath them as they were brought out to the center. One face in particular's stood out to her, a young man with a swollen lip and blood coming from a knot on his swollen left brow.

"Arnold," she whispered. "they have Remil!"

"S-so?" hissed the boy, his chattering teeth nearly louder than his words.

"We have to do something, we have to help him!"

"How?" pleaded Arnold, clasping his hands and shaking them in a begging gesture. "We're two kids, and they're—I don't know, terrorists or something! You'd need to be some kind of nutjob to fight them!"

Barbara pulled back under the staircase and looked at Arnold for a moment. The tears had been streaming down her face for a good minute now; a silent, unanswered gesture, praying that this nightmare would end. But her expression was firm.

"Exactly." she finally replied. She pulled her legs up close and buried her head in her knees.

_Come on, Batman. Where are you?_

Shouting from above could be heard again as a small group began marching down the stairs. Five or six people, by the sound of it. They passed right over Barbara's head, the back of it right up under the steps, and were brought out to the center, underneath the high rise ceiling. A desperation grew in Barbara, to at least know what was happening. She looked back out from her spot again, as she was beginning to suspect it was a blind spot for these men.

Not counting their leader, seven heavily armed men were gathered with about a dozen hostages. All of them waiters, and all of them beaten soundly over the head. The young girl did a headcount again, to be sure. One of the pair that went upstairs was missing. _He must be keeping watch up there…_

The employees of the restaurant were lined up in a row. Remil was the second one from the left. The prisoners were all facing the staircase, the armed men had their backs turned to it. They were unable to note the significance when the Sionis boy stared straight at Barbara, just for a moment. He made no cries for help; he didn't even seem to try and say anything to her. But he had seen her; she knew it. There was no time for anything more, before the man with the remote control began talking.

"So then, fellas, looks like we've got a regular happy round-up here. I'll give you new-meats the rundown, OK? We're looking for one of you all in particular. Remil Sionis ring a bell?"

He leaned in close on the fourth man from the right, his masked face inches away from the waiter's. "Huh? Nothing? Come on, you MUST know him. Speak up a bit!"

He leaned back a bit. "Hmph. Maybe THIS will change your mind."

The leader of the bunch leaned back to wind up, and with a clenched fist brought a punch straight on the top of the waiter's head. A bald young man, the victim screamed in agony as his skull was dented by the metal plates on his captor's knuckles. Blood flowed down the top of his head as the masked man chuckled.

"Oh, so you CAN make some sound after all, huh? Well that just goes and chews up your excuse. You ain't mute, so why're you holding out on us? Give up the little fella, and you all can go home."

Silence. No one spoke, until the masked man's cocky silence slowly festered into a low growl. It rose, and rose, until at last he roared. "OH, COME ON!" he thundered, waving his rifle around. He fired random shots into the air, pinging off the ceiling and the walls. Even his own troops seemed a bit nervous. At last, he finally calmed into a low, scathing cackle.

"Ehehehehe… all right. All right I get it, that's how you wanna play it. Be the big heroes, save your pally, am I right?"

He lowered his rifle at the first man from the left, right next to Remil. The barrel pressed right against the back of his head, and the goateed man, no older than twenty, could only gape in shock before the trigger was pulled. A terrible crack snapped the air of _Sandoval's_, and Barbara watched in full-view as his forehead was blown open. Red mist splurtched out, with shards of bone in-between, and littered the glass shards beneath in a puddle.

Barbara's hand went to her mouth as she felt the contents of her stomach try to escape. She forced it back down, bitter and rancid tastes in her throat. She had to be quiet. She blinked back more tears, and saw the man two places to Remil's left lose his own lunch. As soon as the man could breathe again, he began to make loud and choking sobs, losing his balance and falling straight into a pile of his own filth. A passing attacker brought his boot down on the back of the waiter's head, grinding his face in the muck. Barbara could see trickles of red mingling with the green and brown.

"So THIS is really how you wanna do it, huh?" the leader asked once more. "Because I know that ONE of you is the real Sionis. Scarface gave a DAMN good description of you, and all of you fit at least half of it. Damn Sicilians all look alike though, so I guess I might as well kill you all either way, just to be sure!"

A gun pressed up against the back of Remil's head. His eyes opened wide, staring straight across the room. Right into Barbara's own gaze.

"Any last words, filthy mobster?"

* * *

On the second floor, one soldier was left to stand guard. He was to scan the high-rises for any signs of intervention, be it from SWAT or Bat.

He failed.

At that particular moment, his mask had been torn away to more effectively clamp a tight grip over it. His muffled struggles were as good as silent to those on the floor below, as a powerful arm slowly choked the life out of him. His entire body was wrapped in the coils of a powerful man, stronger than any this particular henchman had ever seen. He hadn't even gotten a good look at him, only a shadow swooping from above before it was on top of him. He could feel a strange gust of air, slowly blowing into his mouth. It tasted bitter, and strangely warm.

His eyes fluttered. This was it, he thought. He was going to die. The colors and tints all swam out of his vision, and at last he felt the hands and coiled limbs slip away. He slumped to the ground, and rolled onto his back, his head staring up. Just before he lost consciousness, he could see it. A terrible figure, dark as the night, with glowing white eyes passing judgment upon him. He trembled as his lips made passive, slow movements. A cold whisper passed through them.

"B-…bat…man…"

His eyes shut, and he drifted off into the embrace of sleep.

* * *

Batman loomed on the left side of the upper floor, standing tall over the incapacitated assailant. His head turned, slowly scanning the dozens of patrons with terrified eyes set on him. Slowly, he brought a finger to his lips. "Shhhhhh."

They all nodded silently; who would be stupid enough to defy him? His cloak wrapped around him, leaving only the slightest sliver of his gray bodysuit visible beneath utter darkness. He crouched, and began to move towards the walkway that connected the two halves of the second floor.

In the Bat's ear, a small buzzing heralded an incoming transmission. He already knew who it was.

"Master Bruce, did the palm-mounted gas tubes work?" The voice was clear, with an affected dose of Received Pronunciation; though a hint of Lancashire peeked through. Alfred Pennyworth was a man of many talents; mission control was just one of them.

With no one able to see his face at that moment, Batman let a hint of a smile show. "Like a charm."

"I'd advise caution and haste, then." Alfred continued. "I've been tapping police lines, as per your request; Commissioner Gordon will be on hand with at least three dozen officers in approximately ten minutes."

"He's gearing up for war." the Bat observed.

"Worrisome, if the gangs of Gotham were not doing the same." his butler retorted.

Batman did not speak any more. He had reached the walkway, and was now crouched down as far as his knees could bend, slowly moving over it. His cape threatened to taper off over the sides, it was so thin. _Likely meant for aesthetics over practicality._

He slowly advanced over to the far side of the little bridge, and took a glance over the side. Almost directly below him, the waiters were lined in a row, on their knees, and their captors' leader was shouting threats.

"Alfred, which one is Remil?"

"Your new software should be able to identify him, Master."

Batman lifted up a gauntled-clad hand, and with a single finger tapped his right temple, feeling a tiny switch push in. A bright white flash erupted in his vision, seen only by him, before everything was replaced. Normal colors gave way to a bluish hue, and all the persons below him were framed in a thin white outline. His eyes focused on the waiter to his far right. Connected by a white line, a small box appeared in his vision, with a facial profile and a string of personal information, as well as measurements, weights, and appearance details.

His name was Orson Hill; not who he was looking for. He moved onto the next one. This face looked more like the nephew of a crime boss. Sure enough, his name read as Remil Sionis. _Got him._

Then, the man in the mask began laughing. "All right I get it, that's how you wanna play it. Be the big heroes, save your pally, am I right?"

He lowered his rifle, and with a single shot blew Orson Hill's brains out onto the floor. The man hit the ground with a thud, already well beyond helping. The man above saw the shivering, hyperventilating men below, as one lost his lunch. Batman could feel a cold chill in his heart; no more waiting.

"Alfred." he hissed into his communicator. "We've just lost a hostage; I can't wait any longer, is Fox's gadget ready?"

"Yes, master." his butler replied, a slight hint of unease in his voice. "He assures me, I flip the switch wired to the right building, and it might as well be on the moon for all the power it's going to get." A pause. "Those are his words, Master Bruce."

"Flip it." the Bat growled.

Batman watched, anxiety growing as he reached for his belt. On his left hip, a small device was plucked away and brought up to bear. Three tiny dials on a box. He quickly arranged the dials as needed, and pressed the button on top of the box. Not a moment after, he watched as the masked man's rifle pressed right into the back of Remil's skull. _Now or never, Alfred…_

A sudden buzzing noise resounded through the open spaces of the restaurant, and all at once the lights shut off. Panicked gasps and screams echoed through the building, cut off by three rounds rapid from an assault rifle.

"EVERYONE, SHUT UP!" bellowed the brown-haired man in the mask. He looked around, desperately seeking any immediate answer to why the entire building had just gone dark. Growling in a none-too-quiet manner, he clipped the remote he held to his left breath pocket and plucked a handheld radio from his belt.

"Kowalski, you there?" he growled into it. No answer. His face would have been visibly sweating if there were any light sources left. All the smoke they'd dropped was still keeping out any sunlight; and the street outside was already dark, the sun beginning to set. His second floor lookout wasn't responding, and it was dark as the night. This spelled out one name to him.

He spun around to face his men and shouted, "It's the BAT!"

_SHINK_

"Whuh?" grunted the soldier to the masked man's left, stuttering as a three-pronged claw latched onto his back.

_SHOOK-SHINK_

The sound of something between a potato gun and a crossbow firing preceded that same hooked man suddenly being yanked into the air by some force. The masked man looked up and saw his goon pulled up to only a dozen feet from the high-rise ceiling, dangling for a moment.

"G-guys?" the man screamed. "Somebody, somebody get me dow—g-g-GAAAAAA—"

He was forced to cease his words and devolve into pained screaming as the telltale sound of a particularly powerful taser buzzed. The crook began to convulse, before finally falling limp as the shock treatment ended.

"Who in the hell did that?" another goon demanded. He got his answer later, as the sound of what had to be unfurling wings drew their attention upwards.

All the mercenaries still in action looked to the bridge on the second floor, and to its railing, where a man stood perfectly balanced. In the darkness, he was naught but a silhouette, but an even darker outline on his chest confirmed their fears: Batman. His arms were stretched out straight to either side, clutching his cape and looking as if terrible, boned wings were spread out. In a deep, booming voice, he only said, "Me."

Hiding behind his mask did nothing; the brown-haired man was still clearly trembling as he pressed the gun harder against Remil's head. "Y-y-you bastard! You're too late!"

He squeezed the trigger, silent elation filling him as he waited for the bang.

A moment passed.

No bang. His eyes drifted back to confirm that his ears heard right. The hostage's skull was still intact. Where was the bang? There was supposed to be a skull-shattering bang! He pulled the trigger again, and once more to be sure. No bullets came out, but the rifle was certainly loaded.

"Don't bother." came the voice of Batman from above. With a swooping motion, he dove off of the walkway, landing with an open palm right in the face of a goon just under the left low ceiling, smashing his skull into the ground and knocking him out on contact. He did a backflip from his upside-down position, and landed back on his feet. On reflex, the masked man turned his rifle to the Bat and tried to fire at him. But again, nothing.

The masked man moved, and the sound of a metallic object shaving the air came hurtling in until it buried itself in his right hand. The masked man screamed, dropping his rifle as he examined the object. A little projectile shaped like a bat.

"I _said_ don't bother." The Bat reiterated. "You stole those rifles from a dock shipment a week or two back. You _thought_ you'd tricked me into blowing up the wrong shipment, with the bombs."

Batman lifted up a small, hand-held device. And for just a brief moment, the masked man swore he saw a smirk on the madman's face. "But really, I was just counting on you using weapons I had the signal to disable."

Batman began to advance, walking back out to the center of the room. Walking into Barbara's field of vision. She was transfixed, eyes focused on the force of nature sauntering into battle. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. _How the hell is he so calm? So… in control?_

"I don't believe this!" the masked man growled, using his uninjured hand to pull out the remote from earlier. "But you're still dead, Batman! We've got a hundred kilos of high explosives ready to take down this whole damn building!"

He pressed the button, cackling wildly… only to stop and stare as no explosions occurred. Cold dread replacing the warm flow of blood in his veins, he looked back at the man he knew was responsible.

"You stole _those_ from the Falcones." Batman answered. He was correct, but how had he known? "Of course, the question is, why use them to try and off a Sionis? Trying to spark a gang war? Or maybe you're just afraid of the limelight, and you'd like to shift your blame onto someone else." His already sour face glowered at the criminals. "Well, the limelight's on you, now. So why don't you tell me more about who you really work for; tell me about _Scarface._"

Behind the stairs, Barbara looked back at Arnold, still cowering in fear, and said, "Didn't that mask guy mention a Scarface, too? Who is he?"

Arnold waves his hands back and for, indicating a very frantic "NO". "I-I-I don't know!" he insisted. "How would I have heard of him?"

Barbara's gaze hardened a little. Arnold seemed very defensive. But she was more drawn to what was happening out in the restaurant. She peered back out to get another look.

Batman now stood just a few feet from the other man, standing about six inches shorter than him, but with just as much muscle. It was odd to see a man without the height advantage being the more physically imposing of the pair.

"I-I don't get it!" the merc stammered, dropping the remote and pulling a knife from his boot. "How the hell did you set all this up? Nobody knew we were coming!"

Batman took another step forward. This time, his adversary took a step back. "Don't you get it?" he asked. "When you play in hell… the devil holds all the cards. And hell's _exactly_ where you are tonight."

"SHUT UP!" roared the merc. Knife in hand, he lurched forward at the Bat, and at once the waiters all dashed for cover. The conscious soldiers didn't care at this point. The freak in the mask was their only target.

Batman leaned back as the knife came down at him, using his left hand to grab the soldier's wrist and divert the knife to slash harmlessly to his left. His free hand balled into a fist and delivered an uppercut straight into the mercenary's jaw. The man leaned back, caught between the downward force of his swing and the upward force of Batman's, before finally doubling back and careening to the floor.

Batman returned to his upright stance and swiveled himself around to get a fix on his surroundings. Five soldiers were still standing, and had arranged themselves in a star pattern, surrounding him. One held a stun baton in his hand, twirling it around like a toy. Another brandished brass knuckles. The others were using their fists.

_Easy enough_.

All at once, the five men charged, roaring and shouting obscenities at the Bat. The first one to reach him was unarmed, coming from his right. Batman fell into a horse-riding stance and leaped to the right, catching the man with a lunging side kick and bowling him to the floor, clutching his abdomen. The next was directly to his left. Still in the same stance, Batman stepped back into position, right foot stepping behind the left and then left foot spreading out and rotating counter-clockwise, sweeping the leg of the charging mook. As he came down, Batman grabbed the top of his combat vest with both hands and smashed their foreheads together. The Bat had the thicker skull, it seemed, as his opponent went limp, putty in his hands.

Still spinning to his left, Batman tossed the unconscious goon into his comrade wielding the stun baton. They both fell to the ground in a heap, and the baton added just a bit more hurt to the unconscious one as they did.

Now one man was in front of Batman and slightly to his left, clutching the brass knuckles. The crook threw a right jab, and Batman shifted to his right, letting the fist pass by his face harmlessly. A left hook was met by a duck, and a few swift punches to the trooper's gut. The man in the gas mask leaned over in pain, and Batman delivered a punch straight into the back of his head. He roared in muffled agony as he turned around to face the last unarmed goon charging like a bull. Batman drew into a combat stance and waited as he drew closer. _Just a second, and…_

As the charging foe got within three feet, Batman ducked and leaned to his left; just as he'd predicted, the goon behind him threw a punch where his head had been a moment before, and where his ally's face now was.

The poor man's nose cracked wide open, blood gushing out as he fell over, unconscious. Spinning around again, Batman tucked his right hand into a small canister, and came out with what looked like a small handgun. He finished his spin, still ducking, face in front of the other soldier's crotch, and immediately attached the hook of his weapon to his belt, before spinning back in the direction he'd originally been looking again.

Just a few feet of slack given to the cable, Batman tugged on it as it slung over his right shoulder with all his might. In a fluid motion, the goon felt his grip to the ground disappear, as he was flung over the vigilante's shoulder before crashing straight into the ground in front of him. The impact knocked him out on impact.

Batman took a few deep breaths as silence fell over the restaurant. Back behind the staircase, Barbara watched, awestruck. The feelings of wonder she'd felt the day she saw him in Gotham High sprung back to memory. Not just selfless sacrifice; this man was _good._ He had the skills to back up his ideals. He'd just floored half a dozen professional criminals like they were pre-schoolers.

But then, she saw something. Something the Bat didn't. The man with the stun baton was struggling back to his feet, out of Batman's sight, and was beginning to slowly creep up behind him, weapon raised high. He came within a few feet, and Barbara gasped. She knew that Batman couldn't see him. She had to help, even as her senses told her to keep quiet for her own safety. She bit her lip, as the baton was raised. She had to.

"BATMAN, BEHIND YOU!" she screamed. The vigilante's head immediately shot up on hearing her voice, and what seemed to be reflex brought up a right backfist, straight into the crook's face. Releasing the baton, the masked soldier fell onto his back stunned. Batman immediately turned to him and leaned down to deliver a few extra punches. Just to be sure.

Barbara felt her heart skip a few beats as she retreated back behind the staircase. This was getting to be too much for her. She looked over at Arnold and tried to smile at him; but she stopped, and her grin faltered as she realized he looked far worse than she did. The scrawny boy was practically hyperventilating, clutching his bag close to his chest. He was barely muttering out panicky, breathy words. "Crap, oh, crap, oh my… bad, bad, bad, bad, bad…"

"A-Arnold?" Barbara asked. "You're starting to scare me. What are you doing?"

Suddenly, Arnold's head shot up, and he dug a hand into his pocket, pulling out a small cell phone. Barbara was immediately by struck by how sleek it looked; it had to have been the newest model. Suddenly, he leaned forward, getting particularly close to Barbara as he extended the phone to her. "Take it, take it!"

"Uh, er… all right?" Gordon replied, taking the phone. Arnold then pulled his fingers back in a requesting gesture.

"We only have a second! Give me your phone, quickly!"

His panicky mood was contagious, and Barbara began to tremble as she fished her own phone out of her jean pocket. She handed it to Arnold, who grinned as he received it. "All right, now stay here!"

Before Barbara could stop him, Arnold dashed out the side of the staircase and ducked into the crowds on the right side of the restaurant.

"Wait!" Barbara called softly after him. "Where are you—mmph—"

She felt a clammy, sweaty hand smack over her mouth, muffling her as she was violently yanked up to her feet. Her head was tilted back, and she saw the battered face of the brown-haired man, now lacking his gas mask. Missing more than a few teeth, he looked down at her with a malicious glint in his eyes.

"Gotcha, ya little tattletale."

Barbara's heart stopped, and every inch of her body felt as chilled as ice. The back of neck felt prickly with all the hairs standing up. She felt the cold prick of a knife against her throat. Her mind raced, but none of it was legitimate thought; all she could think of were fleeting images of her family, her father.

_Daddy, help!_

With a forceful shove, Barbara was pushed out from under the stairs, her captor still holding her close as they advanced out to the center of the room. "Hey, Bats!"

The vigilante turned away from the beating he'd just delivered to the last conscious assailant, and brought his vision around to see the pair of them. Faster than the eye could follow, Batman drew another Bat-shaped projectile from his belt, lifting it up and preparing to throw it.

"**LET HER GO!" **

The force of his voice boomed through the entire restaurant, echoing off the walls with force yet. For moments afterward, not a single noise could be heard. Even the man with the hostage had to take pause and size up the threat presented in those words. But it did little to convince him.

The tip of his knife came just a bit closer, and pricked Barbara's throat. She tried scream, but could only get out muffled bursts of noise as she felt blood trickling onto the cold blade.

"Ah-ah-ah, Bats. You've lost. Make one more move and I make myself a pretty little mute here, got it?"

Barbara's chest began to heave as she tried to let out the sobs building up in her throat. Her vision was so clouded from the tears leaking out the corners of her eyes that she couldn't see what Batman was doing. But she could hear his voice.

"…What do you want?"

"You stand down." the captor said. "I'm gonna walk out of here with my boys, and the little lady here, and you're not gonna follow us, understand?"

Barbara blinked away the salty water long enough to see the Bat's face. Only his mouth and jaw were visible, but the sheer strain on them were quite clear. Let an innocent be taken captive, and let all these men escape, or stop them and let her die? That was the choice he had to make.

Both men stood in silence, frozen in their positions. The brown-haired man shifted his left foot, and Barbara could hear the shifting mirror shards beneath. She watched Batman closely, waiting to see what he would do.

His upraised arm trembled slightly, and began to lower.

_BRRING-BR-BRRRRRIIIIIING BRIIIIIING BR-BRIIIIING._

"What?"

The killer looked down, at Barbara's hand, still clutching Arnold's phone. It was ringing, and had a peculiar ring tone. A very specific, repeating pattern.

"Where the HELL did you get that phone?" he asked, seeming rhetorically considering he didn't let go of her mouth. "Give it to me!" he demanded.

Shaking, Barbara lifted up the phone to his hand, and he snatched it away from her. He flipped it open, and Barbara could hear the voice on the other end as he talked.

"Who is this?"

"_And just what the hell do you think you're doin', talkin' to me like that?"_

"B-b-boss?"

"_Damn right I am. Now, you mind tellin' me what you think you're doin' down there?"_

"W-w-what do you mean?"

"_You had one simple task: kill Remil Sionis. And now you're the last man standin' holdin' some dame hostage. You're a damned disgrace, Vince._"

"I-I-I'm sorry, boss, I'm sorry! But I've got an escape route, I'll get out and—"

"_No, you won't."_

"W-w-what?"

"_I said no, you ain't getting' out. You made this whole operation a wash. So you're gonna pay your fine. Drop your girl, and surrender._"

"Boss, that's crazy!"

"_Just like it was crazy thinkin' you were ready for commandin' a team! You're gonna spend a little time stewin' over this mistake in the jail. Then we'll bail you out. But I swear to Christ, you come back here before that and I'll fill you full'a so much lead they'll need a magnet to separate the bullets from the flesh!"_

The man gulped, and didn't say anything back.

"_DO YA UNDERSTAND ME OR NOT?"_

"I-I understand…"

The criminal's arms dropped away from Barbara, dropping her down to her hands and knees as he stepped away from her. He dropped the phone, and put his hands in the air. Batman immediately retrieved a pair of handcuffs from his belt, stepping past Barbara and clamping them on the man's wrists, directing him to kneel. Once he had complied, Batman walked back to Barbara, who was finally winding down.

All the images she'd seen that day were coming back, and overwhelming her. The blood leaking from the cuts on her hands in the glass shards mingled with the tears streaming from her face. She didn't know whether they were tears of joy or terror, but she let them out in full force either way. She heard the noise of bending fabrics as someone kneeled beside her. She looked up from her position, and saw Batman's face just a few inches from her own.

"Are you all right?" he asked. His tone was smoother, softer than the deep roar he'd used against the villains. Barbara stared in disbelief for a second, and opted to smile at him.

"Y-yeah. I… I think so."

Batman offered a hand to her. She took it, and he pulled her up to her feet. His grip was softer than she'd expected; she assumed shaking his hand would break yours, but he was seemingly quite aware of his own strength.

She smiled at him, hoping he would return it. But his face remained stoic.

"You've lost some blood." he noted. "Not much, but you should get your injuries bandaged before you lose more. You should also be careful of infection."

Lights began to seep in through the smoke. Red and blue lights. The Gotham Police had arrived.

Batman turned to leave, but Barbara put a bloody hand on his shoulder. "Wait!"

He hesitated, and turned back around to see what she wanted. She smiled, and bowed her head to him. "Thank you."

Though he did not react, Barbara felt better for finally saying it. Both for this time, and the time he'd saved her before.

"BARBARA!" cried a voice from the front of the restaurant. She was surprised to see her father leading the charge of officers into the building. There were dozens of them, fanning out in search of any injured, or… worse. Commissioner Gordon might as well have been a train with all the force he was using to charge for his daughter.

Batman drew something from his belt, and pointed it at the ceiling. A grapnel gun fired its hook to the ceiling, and with a single pull he disappeared into the ceiling and the spaces above.

Barbara only glanced at him for a second before she looked back to her father, who had finally charged up to her. Jim was standing in front of her, arms half-reached to hug her, but his face was distraught.

"Oh, god, Barbara…" he whispered. "your neck, and…oh, _god._"

His arms completed their motion and pulled her close. She didn't push him away this time. She felt safe in her daddy's arms, and after today, she wanted that safety more than anything else. She could feel him crying into her shoulder. Spurred on by her father, Barbara started to cry too.

Jim stood there hugging his daughter for minutes on end, just thanking God that his daughter was alive.

From a distance, Remil Sionis watched the moment silently. He gave a faint smile, until his eyes drifted to his dead co-worker lying on the floor. Paramedics were coming in now, with covers for the deceased. His smile faded, and he looked away.

And no one, in all the confusion, saw Arnold slip his fresh-rezipped bag onto his shoulders and slip out the back door.


	9. Chapter 9

The sound of honking horns and blaring sirens in the distance were the only sounds to be heard clearly. A low thrum of a moving engine filled the background. Barbara sat in the passenger's seat of her father's car, leaning to her right and letting her face press up against the window. The cold glass was a welcomed sensation; anything to keep her mind of the heat of the flames. _The fire…_

She couldn't bear to look at her father. James Gordon was driving her home as swiftly as he could, and she could almost feel all the things he wanted to say to her. The encouragements, the consoling. But it would have rang hollow this soon, he knew that. So he sat in agonized silence, hoping his little angel would be all right. His daughter was in a daze, not thinking about much of anything. Her eyes listlessly followed whatever objects passed by. Gotham was tired, and turning in for the night. There was almost no light left on the streets now; they'd been at the restaurant for an hour after her father came to her rescue. She'd been stopped by a Lieutenant asking for her to fill a police report. It had taken Jim half an hour and a very angry tirade to remind his subordinate just what a sixteen year old girl had been through.

"You think _you'd _go through hell like that, and the first thing you'd want to do is RELIVE IT?" he'd bellowed at the man.

She would be filling it out tomorrow, Jim had told her in the car. He wished to heaven there were some way to avoid it, but they needed her to. She hadn't minded so much at the moment he'd told her, and indeed had given him a full recounting of the incident—she needed someone to share it with, the confusing horror of it all. At that time she was focused on Arnold's disappearance, begging her dad to tell her if he knew what had happened to her friend. He was only able to shake his head "no", disappointed. His officers had searched the entire building, but nothing had come up.

She was still dazed and exhausted when her thigh began to vibrate.

The odd sensation roused her quite quickly from her stupor, and she fished a hand into her pocket to feel a vibrating cell phone. She fished it out and glanced at the number displayed on the screen: Bruce Wayne's. She moved to answer it; but before she pressed the answer button, she stopped herself. She set the cell phone in one of the cup holders, and not a moment after her eyes shut.

As Jim pulled up to a red light, a rare source of illumination in the streets of Gotham, he glanced over at his daughter, fast asleep with her face still pressed up against the window. His crinkled lips stretched into a worn smile.

"Come on kid," he whispered. "let's get you home."

* * *

Barbara's eyes fluttered open. It was dark, but she was certain she recognized this place. She tried to move her arm, to find it stuck underneath a sheet. As her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and her cognitive faculties returned, she finally remembered the feeling of her own bed. She sat up, and discovered she'd been changed into her pajamas and tucked in. Her eyes shot to the clock, which displayed the time of 12:48. She felt very flustered, confused as vague shards of memory began to piece themselves back together. She remembered what had happened that night, immediately pressed a hand to her throat to feel it; all her hands touched was a carefully-applied bandage. In fact…

She looked at her hands in the darkness, barely able to make out several wads of gauze and bandages applied to her palms. It was if she'd slept through a trip to the hospital. She swung her legs out from under the covers, sitting on the side of her bed and looking over to the end table to her left. Small and humble, it had barely enough room for a lamp and perhaps a book. _The Old Man and the Sea_ occupied that spot tonight, but her eyes warily took in the sight of something on top of it.

Barbara flicked on the lamp, letting dim yellow light wash over a small cup of medicine and a note. She picked up the slip of paper, fumbling a bit with the bulky dressing restricting her.

_Your father thought you'd be out until morning, but just in case, this'll help with the stinging. And didn't you already finish your Hemingway shelf? I swapped your book with that Chalker book you bought last week, just in case you needed some reading material tonight. Sleep tight, little angel._

Alone or not, Barbara couldn't help but blush when she read the last words. She smiled, though. She sipped down the medicine, which tasted something like chalk-coated cherries, and picked up the book. She stared at the cover, at the hordes of strange, pea pod-like people chasing after the man in front. This would be an odd one, to be sure.

But try as she might, she couldn't force herself to start reading. Odd, considering she normally had to force herself to _stop_ reading a book. Her mind was on other things, particularly the boy that had tried to call her earlier.

"Oh wow," she muttered out loud. "He's probably having a heart attack by now."

She stood up from her bed, almost immediately toppling over from the daze she still seemed to be fighting off. She caught herself on the wall, to see her phone resting on the other side of the bed. Still propping herself up, she scooped down with her arm to grab it before pushing off and flopping back to her bed. The impact immediately sent unpleasant shock through her tired body, bringing up an intense desire to scream.

She stared up at the ceiling for a moment, unsure of what to do with herself, even as the phone rested in her hand. All in all, she didn't want to talk to anyone. But she knew Bruce deserved to at least know she was all right. Sighing, she brought the phone into her vertically-faced view, and dialed his number.

The phone rang exactly once as she brought the gadget up to her ear, before a click came from the other end.

"Barbara?" asked the familiar voice of the Wayne boy, just a subtle dash of panic layered in his voice.

"Yeah, who else would it be?" she asked teasingly.

"J?"

"Thanks for the flattering comparison, Bruce." Barbara said, deadpan. Wayne was uninterested in continuing their back-and-forth for long, though, and dove straight into the actual matter at hand.

"Are… are you all right?" he asked. "Alfred told me about what happened today, we called your dad and…"

"I'm fine." Barbara said, cutting him off. He couldn't see the growing grin on her face. "But thanks for checking on me; I just got a few nicks, I'll be okay."

"Well, all right. If you're sure." Bruce said, sounding fairly unsure himself. "How's Arnold holding up?"

Barbara was actually a little surprised that Bruce had remembered the skinny boy at all, let alone care enough to ask after him. "He's, um." she stopped, contemplating his strange disappearance. "I don't know, actually." she admitted.

"You… don't know?" Bruce asked, not buying it from his tone.

"Yeah, it was the weirdest thing." Barbara told him. "In fact… he was acting really off the whole time we were in the restaurant, like he knew what was going to happen next."

"What?"

"Well, when we sat down," Barbara began. "our waiter was that big mob boss, Sionis' nephew. Arnold pretty much flipped off the handle and begged for us to leave, and a few seconds later the front of the building blew up."

The other end of the line was silent for a few moments. Barbara began to fear that Bruce had hung up, but at last he said "Anything more?"

Uh oh. She remembered that tone. It was one she hadn't heard since the first week she'd met the boy; he'd used it while they were tracking down the camera thief. He was serious, now.

"Uh… yeah." the Gordon girl replied, thinking back to the day. She tried not to let it show in her voice just how horrifying the experience was; the slightest tremble was wont to set off an alarm in Bruce's head. "He flipped out just a few seconds before some guy snuck up and nabbed me; he made me switch phones with him, and then he ran off and hid. A minute or two later, the phone rang, and get this, 'cause it's weird—the guy calling was this gangster's _boss_, and ordered him to surrender!"

The line was silent for even longer this time. Bruce's voice seemed harsher when he spoke again. "You don't find that suspicious?"

A prick in Barbara's mind set her adrenaline rushing, like she'd been caught in a lie. "What are you talking about?" she asked, with a bit more bite than she'd intended.

"I convinced Cobblepot to give me a peek at the entries to tomorrow's talent show."

"Oh god, that's tomorrow?" Barbara asked, cutting him off. She'd completely lost track of the week.

"Yeah, it is." Bruce confirmed. "And in the entries—look, okay, did Arnold tell you what his act was for tomorrow's show?"

"No, now that you mention it, he didn't."

"He's a _ventriloquist_, Barbara. A good ventriloquist can make himself sound like a completely different person. And do you know his puppet's name?"

Barbara shook her head, her mind reeling from these ideas Bruce was planting, and unable to even realize he couldn't see these motions.

"His name is Scarface."

At once, Barbara's mind rushed back to that name, and the events surrounding it. The man in the mask, waving his gun; and Arnold, so vehemently denying anything to do with the name.

"Oh god. It makes sense." The words slipped out of her mouth, beyond her control. She tried to form words, but none came to her. She sat in silence, desperately trying to think of something to say; something to defend her new friend. He couldn't have been _responsible_ for that, right? If he was, then why—

That was the answer she was looking for. "But, Bruce, he defended me. He saved my life! If he was responsible for that, w-wouldn't he have just let me die?"

"Even crooks have friends, Barbara," her friend chided. "but whatever's happening, I plan on getting to the bottom of it. Whatever you do, _stay away from Arnold._"

"Wait, you can't order me what to do!" she yelled into the phone. Her protests came too late, and she heard a click as Bruce hung up on her. She buried her head into the pillow to muffle a scream as she tossed the glossy phone into the wall, and let it recoil to the floor.

Her scream stopped, and something dawned on her. Looking up warily from her pillow, she saw the phone on her floor, screen face-down. Not her phone. Arnold's. She stood up, stumbling over to the little device and picked it up, examining it and feeling dull shock hit her drowsy mind.

How the _hell_ did Bruce know to call her on Arnold's phone?

* * *

In the slums of Gotham City, a steady rain was pouring. Rains were common, even this late into the year, and they added an extra layer of grime to an already disgusting part of the city. Trash littered the streets, and a few lit oil barrels glazed the alleyways in orange light. Shadows flitted back and forth as those stuck on the streets jockeyed for places to stay out of the rain. High above them, though, one creature took the water in without complaint.

The Bat was on patrol, kneeling on the edge of a roof and looking out over the streets. No crime to be seen for miles, just miserable men and beasts trying to stay warm and dry. He paid them no mind, his eyes focused through binocular lenses on a different target: a rust-brown apartment building on the other side of the street, with darkened windows—a few of them shattered—and no signs of movement within.

"Alfred," the Bat asked in his baritone voice. "Are you sure this is the right building? It looks... terrible. Like it was deserted, and not recently."

"I assure you Master Bruce," the voice on the other end of the line replied. "my sources are as reliable as your penchant for stalking. This is Arnold's home, all right."

"I'm going in." Bruce declared, removing the visual aid from his eyes, and clipping it back to his belt. He stood, pulling out one of his newest toys. He referred to it as the Batline.

He took aim with the Batline, suppressing infuriating memories of Alfred sniggering at the name. _The hell's wrong with Batline?_

The device was set against his knuckles, and held with said knuckles facing straight up to connect it to the opposing building's wall. He clicked a button with his thumb, jettisoning a cable from each end of a little spool and two-ended barrel on top. One side clinched the brick outcropping that housed the stairway down, just behind him. The other spiraled across the street and connected with Arnold's home, right above a window.

_I made it, and it's a damned zipline. Simple._

Batman tugged the line once with his gadget, now doubling as a handle, to make sure it was strong enough to support his weight. He was satisfied with the resistance, and with a slight run to start himself off, leaped off the side of the building and dropped only a foot or so before the Batline began sliding him through the air, zipping down towards the window he'd targeted.

He braced himself for impact, smashing into the glass window with his full weight. The structure couldn't dare to resist that kind of momentum, and shattered into a hundred pieces as he clicked another button on the side of the Batline; it released its cables, allowing him to drag the gadget with him as he blasted through and into the darkness of Arnold's apartment.

He landed on his feet, after several roles, and quickly rose. Tapping a small switch hidden behind the armor on his chin, the Batsuit's night vision activated. Bruce rolled his neck, letting it pop as he cracked his knuckles.

"I always wanted to be an archaeologist, Alfred. Why don't we dig up some dirt?"

"That was _dreadful, _Bruce."


	10. Chapter 10

Bruce's eyes scanned the room, washed with blue from his enhanced vision. It was very clearly a boy's bedroom, though the condition was abominable. Rain was pouring in through the window he'd crashed through. He looked at the damage, before dismissing it. This was a terrible neighborhood. If Batman was wrong, then Arnold would assume it was a normal break-in. If he was correct… then it was a suitable warning for a man like Scarface. Nowhere is safe; not even his home.

The falling sheet of rain drew his attention to the desk he'd crashed in over. He'd missed it entirely, with it positioned directly below the window, but it looked important. Arnold had no electronic devices in this place, from the looks of it; a few faded posters to old movies lined the walls, seemingly more to take up space than anything else. The raggedy bed was to the left of the door, and took up almost half the room. He leaned down and examined the pillow closely, and pinched something on the sheet between his thumb and forefinger. He lifted it up closely, enough for the software in his cowl to begin analyzing it. It zoomed in on one tiny strand, displaying a window with a brief bit of information.

_Human hair. Blonde. _Batman parroted in his mind. _At least Alfred was right; this is the right house… wait._

Adjusting the positioning of the strands he'd plucked, his cowl settled in on another target. The text box came up, explaining its details.

_And this one's felt. Likely a fedora, or something similar. But I've never seen Arnold with a hat… Could be coincidence, I'll need more evidence than hat fibers._

He opened up a small pouch on the front left of his belt, tossing in the hair and felt strands before turning his attention towards the desk. A simple, tattered lamp was the only appliance present, and the only thing sitting on it was a small book. A journal, most likely. Batman approached it, picking the book up to take a closer look. A lock was clasped over the right side of the book, with a small hole for a key that the boy likely kept on his person. Batman couldn't help but smirk as he yanked the Redkey off of his belt. A bit of "borrowed tech" from Star Labs, as Alfred had put it, using lasers, hard light, and other things that Bruce was fairly confident no human could ever produce in a device the size of a keychain.

Still, it got the job done. The light projected from the little device fit snugly into the lock, and solidified enough for him to turn it and remove the clasp. The covers of the journal parted, allowing him full access.

He sat down in the chair, flipping off the "Detective Mode" vision, as he referred to it, and squeezed a small trigger on the left side of his Adam's apple. A beam of light was projected from a small bulb located on top of the blank white contacts placed over his eyes. With the journal illuminated, he gave a quick flip-through of the pages, trying to gauge how much he'd have time to look at.

As it happened, it was a fairly new journal. _Not more than a week of entries. Likely when Arnold moved here._

Batman flipped back to the first entry, and read it through completely.

_Dear Diary,_

_October 3__rd_

_Well, the move is done. I was really nervous the whole way down. It's lonely, sitting in the back of a moving truck, but at least Scarface was with me. Everything's going to be better here, just like he said. No more fights, no more violence, no more names, and taunting, and hurting. I wanted to share the happiness I was feeling with my parents, but they were in the other truck. Sleeping. Just like always._

_Scarface says I don't need them anyways. He and his pals are the only friends I need. To tell the truth, I think he's right. They all helped us move the furniture in. This place I'm sitting in now's different from my old room. A lot smaller. But Scarface says we'll be moving up soon; he just has to call in some old friends to do some favors. I've seen them before, and frankly they don't look like very trustworthy people. Big, and scary, and muscly. I guess as long as Scarface trusts them, it's ok, right? He's always been smarter than me, so he's probably better at judging people too._

Batman flipped to the next page, an entry that came two days later.

_October 4__th_

_Scarface's friends came back again. I tried to leave them alone, but Scarface made me stay. He says that he needs me there, for "moral support"._

_I don't really know what kind of support I give him. He's the one that does all the talking; I just sit there, silent, and hope that everybody's watching him and not me. Whoever these people are, Scarface must be really good to them. They're way bigger than him. Bigger than me, even. But they listen, and they do whatever he tells them too._

_I'm starting to get a little worried about what he's telling them. I don't really understand most of it, he uses lots of code and things, but I'm starting to think that whatever his friends are doing might not be… nice. I tried talking to him about it, but he just brushed me off, said that I should let him handle his own business. I try, but… if he's doing something dangerous, then I should be a good pal and help him, right? And if he's doing something bad… I don't know what I'm supposed to do._

Batman frowned as he reached the end of that last entry. _He hasn't mentioned his parents at all since they moved in. It's all been about this Scarface. At first I thought he'd named his puppet after whoever the real mob boss was. But all the signs are saying…_

He put his speculation aside and flipped the page. A few days had passed, in the world of Arnold's writings.

_October 7__th_

_I'm starting to get worried now. When I got home, Scarface told me to sit with him and wait in the living room. I did, and two of his friends brought in some stranger. I don't think I'd have recognized him even if we'd met. He was hurt. Badly. Someone had been taking a bike chain to his face, and I could see welts from a wrench on his hands and neck. His left eye was swollen, and there so blood. So much blood. He was crying, and begging for mercy, and I tried to help. But Scarface stopped me. He said this was a lesson, of what happens to people who threatened us._

_He said that he'd been caught working with rival gangs, trying to pull a hit on him. And on me, too. But he'd been caught. Scarface said he wanted to show me what happened to people who threatened me, so that I would feel safe._

_I don't feel very safe. This is starting to feel like Bludhaven all over again. Only, I think this time might be worse. I tried to talk and mom and dad about it. They seemed like the only ones left who might be able to help. But they were sleeping again. Always sleeping… always…_

Batman snapped the book shut and placed it back on the table, replacing the clasp and locking it. He stood from the chair.

"Alfred."

"Yes, Master Bruce? Did you find something?"

"Arnold's journal." Bruce explained. "He's craz—" he stopped there. An image flashed in his mind of Barbara, angry. Shouting.

Bruce tried again, and the butler did not fail to notice the concern in his voice. "He's scared, Alfred. He needs help, and he's in way over his head."

"So, he's not the culprit then."

"He is." Bruce affirmed. "But it's not his fault; he's not in control of his circumstances, or his actions. I don't think he has been for a long time."

"What are you going to do now, then?"

"I'm going to find Arnold's parents. Then, I think I'll have this puzzle solved."

Batman strode to the door, yanking it open and stepping out into a dull, gray hallway. The muted pattering of rain could be heard as he looked to either side. He was at the end of his hallway, and only one door remained in the upstairs. He took a few steps down, using his eye-mounted light to examine the halls. _No decorations. It's more like a glorified storage room than a home._

He reached the last remaining door, and opened it just a tad to peek inside. It was completely barren, at first glance. Then, sensing that this was misleading, he stepped inside. Indeed, the door had been blocking the view he'd needed: an entire wall had been made into a weapons rack. Rifles, pistols, shotguns, grenades. An entire arsenal had been gathered. The Bat's mouth went agape for a moment as he took it all in. He lifted up his right hand, fiddling with a small control on his gauntlet to activate his camera.

A few flashes from the center of the bat on his chest illuminated the room as the evidence was catalogued. A few spare shots were taken, just to be on the safe side.

"Alfred," he said. "I'm sending you the evidence from the house. When I'm done here, print the pictures and deliver them anonymously to Commissioner Gordon."

"Of course, sir. Any luck on the parents?"

"Not yet. But I have a floor left to investigate."

He left the arsenal behind, stepping into the hallway and facing the stairway to his left. The Bat descended; his steps were eerily silent in the dead house. His only company was the rain. He came down at the bottom of the spiraling stairwell to see that to his left was the door out. To his right was the kitchen, utterly dark. But something caught his attention as he looked through the open arch too the room beyond.

A living room, by what his flashlight was illuminating. He could see a few musty paintings on the walls, of old cottages. The walls were a dim green, and two armchairs were huddled around a cruddy television set. Batman immediately shut off his light, however, when he saw the last thing he wanted to: a hand resting on the arm of the chair, whose back was thankfully turned to him. Batman switched to his Detective Vision, noting to himself that it was far more useful than the flashlight; in fact, he decided, the next Suit would drop the light entirely. Taking care not to make a single sound, he began to creep down the rest of the stairs and to the floor. Nothing stirred from the chair, which relieved him; just wished he had some way to see through solid objects. His vision was as easy to obscure as it always was with anything but darkness in this mode.

He reached the arch, still crouched, before standing. Whoever was there, they'd be too late to stop him. He loomed over the chair as he approached, prepping a canister of knockout gas in his left gauntlet. The little servings of spray were fed through a tube on the underside of his glove, which then was directly tapped to deliver a single dose of the gas through a series of tubes connecting to his palm. Each canister held enough to take down three grown men in seconds each. More than enough to deal with this one.

He counted down to himself as he approached. _One… two…_

With a swift and silent swipe, Batman clamped his hand over the victim's mouth, letting the knockout spray perform its guileful deed. But he hadn't been touching the man for a second before it was very apparent something was wrong. The skin wasn't relenting to any pressure, like it should. It was firmer, almost like…

"Wood?"

Batman immediately swept his body around the side of the chair, coming around to the front to look the man in the eye.

There before him sat what looked like a man. It was dressed in khakis and a green sweater vest, with a white undershirt. He wore thick-rimmed glasses, and bore the same color of hair as Arnold did. But his eyes were dull, and glazed over. That was because they were painted. He looked over at the other chair, which was as he suspected it was: containing Arnold's "mother", in a red blouse and black skirt, with long brown hair and a sharp nose. But the eyes were the same.

Batman took a step back, his mind at once freezing up as the new information and circumstances this brought to the case reeled in his head. He backed up into the television, knocking it straight over to the ground. Sparks and a few shards of glass shot off in every direction.

"Master Bruce, what's wrong?" Alfred asked, hearing the disturbance. "Have you found something?"

"I found… Arnold's parents." Batman replied, sounding just a bit too distraught for the butler's tastes. Alfred almost felt sick hearing any emotion but stoic confidence in Bruce's voice, which prompted a somewhat hurried response.

"What is the matter, Master Bruce? Are they all right?"

Batman hung his head, eyes fixed on the floor. "…They're puppets, Alfred. Arnold's parents are life-size puppets."

"W-what?" the Bat's helper stammered, the shock in his voice apparent. "B-but… how is that possible?"

"It's simple, actually." Batman stated; but there was no satisfaction in his voice. "Arnold's parents died while he was still in Bludhaven. That's why Scarface moved to Gotham, with a whole new world of opportunities. He's a splinter of Arnold's psyche, the boy's mentally ill. All of his hatred, his cunning, his violence, it got placed into this "Scarface" persona at some point. And if I'm right, it's represented by his puppet."

Batman looked at the scene before him, shaking his head as he began to walk back the way he had come in. He was still talking, explaining, as he went.

"Scarface is relatively new, I'd guess. Before him, all of Arnold's outbursts would have been carried out personally, likely against his peers instead of the mob. He'd have been feared, hated, and viewed with suspicion by authority. An aspiring crime lord like Scarface couldn't help but chafe under that sort of restriction, so he sought out a new playground."

He stopped to look back inside the arsenal room one last time. His thoughts turned to Gotham High, and the students within. One in particular. They were in danger as long as this boy was on the streets. He'd have to be stopped, and soon.

"So," Alfred queried. "the death of Arnold's parents was the perfect opportunity to pull a few strings, and transfer the boy back "home" to Gotham, yes? No one would ever have to know he was really all alone."

"Close." Batman said as he finally stepped back into Arnold's room. He placed a boot on the boy's desk, accidentally nicking the side of the journal, and knocking it to the floor. Its covers were knocked open, and the rain began to pour in on the unprotected pages. The Bat paid it no heed, stepping out onto the sill and crouched. He stared out at the streets below.

"But," Batman concluded. "it's a little too _convenient_ that Arnold's parents died just as he needed an out to Gotham."

He said nothing more, and back home Alfred could only sit at his chair, mulling these new thoughts over as the Bat dove back into the shadows. Tomorrow would be the talent show. Arnold would be there, and he would be doomed.

* * *

Far from his home, Arnold sat in a new safehouse. Warm, with comfortable lighting and furniture, all decorated meticulously by Scarface's men. Arnold had begun to put the pieces together. This was a gang. Not just any gang, but a serious mob. Well-trained men, with powerful stolen weaponry.

He supposed that he'd known for a very long time, but he'd never had a reason to point it out, or stand up to it. But he'd been forced into that position because of the favor he'd paid to one Barbara Gordon. Scarface was letting him know the full gravity of this situation.

"Do you got ANY idea what kind of trouble you just landed me an' my boys in, kid?" the puppet bellowed at him, sitting in a chair across from him. They were both in the dining room, Arnold with a small plate of beans and a cut of Salisbury steak. Scarface had a helping of caviar, with some anchovies on top; his tastes were… bizarre.

The boy gulped, barely able to keep himself composed. But there was no backing down now, he could feel it. "I-I had to help her! She might have died!"

"And it'd be her own damned fault for it!" The puppet insisted. Arnold could see him smashing his fists into the table for emphasis. "Yours too, kid! I told ya ya weren't s'posed to go anywhere near that place today! And what did ya do? YA WENT TO THAT PRECISE PLACE!"

"W-w-well, if I declined, she might've gotten upset… and… and…"

"And what, pal?" Scarface asked, the bite in his tone quite noticeable. "Spit it out!"

Arnold's face turned bright red, before bursting out with the mixed-in sounds of a sob. "You were the one that told me to make friends! And I DID!"

Scarface sat silently. Something welled up in Arnold; a powerful feeling in his gut. That was it: it was _power._ HE was in control. He stood out of his chair a bit. "I made a friend, just like you said to! So you don't get to tell me I messed up, because I did exactly what I was supposed to!"

"No, ya _didn't._" Scarface snarled back. A startled squeak from Arnold's mouth leaked out as he felt compelled back into his seat. "I didn't tell ya to get some DAME involved and muck up a hit! If you hadn't forced me to get involved and save your sorry hides, I'd be free of one more Sionis in this world! But NOW I've got the Commissioner's slaggerin' daughter involved, and she _knows you're involved with me._"

Arnold's face dropped, and his eyes went wide. He felt numb. "Y-you don't mean…"

"I do." Scarface told him. "She knows now, you could tell as easy as I could, pal. She's gonna spill her guts to Gordon. Then you'n'I're BOTH gonna be rottin' in the big house."

"S-she wouldn't!" Arnold insisted, feeling his voice crack as desperation boiled beneath his skin. "She's m-my friend, she would never…!"

"Never _what?_ Obey the _law?_ She's a good kid, Arnold, and goodie two-shoes brown-nosers like her'll go tattlin' to the law every time."

Arnold's face was broken, crestfallen. His quivering lip warbled endlessly as his face dropped, eyes focused on the meager meal before him.

"I-I… I don't wanna go to jail. I don't want…"

"You don't want things to be like in _Bludhaven _again… right, pal?"

Arnold snorted, and he watched a tear drip down into the gravy of his steak. "I don't ever want that again…"

"Then it's simple." Scarface explained. Arnold looked up, curious. But a heavy feeling in his heart weighed him down; he already knew what his pal was going to say. He mouthed the words along with Scarface in perfect time. "We've gotta put a hit on Barbara Gordon."

Neither said anything for the longest time after that. Scarface watched the timid little boy sulking with his food, growing full of pity and disgust as the minutes passed. Ultimately, he could take it no more, and tried to say something, _anything_ to cheer him up.

"C'mon, kid. I know it ain't everythin' you expected. This new life's harder'n either of us knew it'd be. But you'll make new friends! And, hey, you've still got me, right? Y'know, I ain't ever gonna leave ya, kid!"

That got enough of Arnold's attention to at least make him look at his friend. "Y-you really… mean that?"

The puppet smiled as warmly as it could. "A'course kid. Best pals, foreva and eva. That's a promise."

Arnold smiled. That was a comforting thought, knowing that Scarface would always be by his side.

But when he went to sleep that night, all he could think about was Barbara, the friend he had gained, and would lose, so quickly.


	11. Chapter 11

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

"Guh… wha?"

Barbara's eyes lazily drifted open as the incessant blaring of her alarm clock alerted her to the dawn of a new day. She could feel a throbbing headache pulse through her temples, which instinctively caused her to bury her head in the nearest pillow. Unfortunately, that did little to cease the noise of her clock.

She surrendered to the call of the morning, and threw herself up into a sitting position, dazed and letting her eyes wander around the room. She'd left it in a pretty sorry state the night before, opting to fall asleep almost immediately after calling Bruce. Books and school supplies littered the floor, the sheets to her bed had been uprooted and tossed around in her sleep, and the sun was peeking in through the blinds.

Wait, something sounded wrong there.

_The sun? In October?_

Barbara immediately glanced at her clock, which confirmed the horror building up in her stomach. She muttered the time to herself, out of dull shock. "12:31… I'M LATE!"

Barbara practically flipped out of her bed; the cover rocketed off and hit the opposite wall as she stumbled to the floor, grabbing all her discarded items for the remainder of the school day. She jabbered to herself, mouth parroting the mind. "Oh wow oh god, this is very very bad. Perfect attendance, shot, probably missed a quiz or something, I've gotta call Bruce or Eddie about homework and of course Bruce isn't going to remember the homework…"

She tossed all her assembled items into her bag, throwing it up onto the bed in a frenzy as she moved towards the closet. She threw it open, staring at her wardrobe. She was hardly paying attention as she picked her pants and a shirt, throwing them over onto her chair. "And then there's the talent show, if I don't get there by lunch they probably won't let me watch! Why didn't anybody wake me up? Come on Barbara, calm down, they're probably both at work. Yeah, that's it. This is YOUR screw-up. Like that's supposed to calm me down…"

Still panicking over the idea of sleeping through a school day, Barbara slammed a fist on her alarm clock, shutting off the beeping that had been going on the entire time. She stepped over towards her chair, peeling off the shirt she'd forgotten to change out of the night before. The dirty clothing was flippantly flung behind her as she reached down to pick up the new shirt.

That was when she heard the door opening, and caught sight of her father entering the room with a tray of food.

"Morning, angel; thought you'd like a bit of lunch after last _oh jeez._"

The beleaguered Commissioner only had a hair's breadth of a second to duck back behind the door before a twenty five-pound bookbag hammered the spot he'd been standing in the instant before.

"DAD! KNOCK!"

"Sorry, sorry!" her father called in from the hallway. "I reset your alarm this morning, figured you'd just be waking up."

"Why?" Barbara asked, throwing on her new shirt. "You can come in now."

Jim nervously peered in, to make sure her daughter was decent and he wouldn't be receiving blunt trauma for entering. When he saw the coast was clear, he fully stepped into the room, with what was now clearly a bowl of Italian wedding soup and a sandwich. He explained, "You went through a lot of stress last night, I figured you could use the extra rest. I already called the school, you're getting the day off, no penalties."

Barbara felt the weight lift off her shoulders as she sat back down on her bed. Her father sat beside her, handing her the tray of food. She gladly dug into the sandwich, dipping it in the soup between each bite. She didn't realize just how _hungry_ she was until the first waft of soup odor struck her. She had scarcely even thought about the dinner she'd missed, on top of sleeping right through breakfast. Come to think about it, it had nearly been a full twenty four hours now.

She couldn't help but eat as she talked, spitting out bread crumbs and muffling her voice. "What about the talent show? I need to go to school for the day to see that."

Jim chuckled and ran his hand through Barbara's hair, mussing it up as he beamed at her. "Want to cheer Bruce on, huh?"

Barbara blushed as she ducked away from his mussing. "I just want to watch the show, Dad…"

"Hehe, I know, I'm just messing with you. The talent show's after school, I can just drop you off around 3:00 and you can head straight to it."

"You can?" Barbara asked, looking at him excitedly.

"Well, sure!" Jim laughed. "What're they gonna do, call the police on you?"

Barbara's face flapped with puffing cheeks before she broke out into a fit of laughter, nearly tossing her soup off her lap. Jim broke down and joined in the guffaws with her, feeling unabashed joy at seeing her so cheerful after yesterday. The giggling fits lasted for a short while, before finally dying down into a subdued silence. Jim watched his daughter take a few more bites of the food he'd brought before standing up and groaning. He could still feel the pain in his back from the… "encounter" with the Batman. He walked over to the door, getting through the frame before turning around, still rubbing the aching bones in his back.

"Urgh… all right, Barbara, seems like you're all set up here. Go ahead and get ready, and come on down whenever you feel like it. I'll take you to the talent show, then I'll be off to work."

"I thought you'd taken the day off." Barbara noted, looking up with a spoonful of soup shoved in her mouth. Jim just gave a wistful sort of smile, distorting his aging face as he shook his head.

"Nah, I just gave myself an 'extended lunch break' to make sure you were all right, kiddo. Montoya tells me they got some kinda tip on the Scarface case; we might even be making an arrest if the evidence pans out."

Barbara's eyes shot wide open. She could feel a lump in her throat; going by her guess, it was her heart. The Commissioner didn't let that reaction slip by, and immediately developed a concerned expression.

"Everything OK, Barbara?"

His daughter choked on her own words, grasping for an excuse. "Um—uh—y-yeah! Fine!" she said, making a few faux gasps and making a little waving motion towards her tongue. "The soup's just… hotter than I expected!"

Jim was very visibly dissatisfied with that answer, giving her a wary look before he took another step out the door. "Well… all right. Let me know when you're ready." He slowly closed the door behind him, and Barbara heard his plodding steps move down the hall. She set the food beside her and laid straight back onto her bed, thoughts stuck on her friend Arnold. _Bruce sounded so sure… but doesn't Arnold deserve the benefit of the doubt?_

The anachronistic analog clock in Jim Gordon's car read precisely 3:00 PM when he pulled into the parking lot at Gotham High. Barbara saw dozens of buses lined up, letting on their listless passengers to deliver home. The talent show was probably the school's least popular event, with no more than a few hundred attendees any given year. Usually nearly a hundred of them were just the performers; the promise of money in exchange for cheap tricks was enticing to lazy high school students.

Barbara gave a quick wave goodbye to her father and stepped out of the car. It was unseasonably warm that day, to the point that she hardly needed a jacket. Jim drove off, and she knew that his destination would likely lead him back to here soon. She'd tried to shove the mixed feelings away as she ate, and as she waited to leave, to no avail. It would be time to confront this situation soon. But for now, she was here to be entertained, and to support her friends. Speaking of which, she recognized a short little boy waiting for her at the top of the steps.

"Oh! Uh, hey, Eddie." Barbara said, a little concerned that he happened to be there. He didn't… he wasn't _waiting _for her, right?

"Oh, Barbara! So glad you could make it!" he said, giving a distinguished little bow. He was dressed in a green suit, a size too large for him, with a magenta tie covered in black question marks. He could already sense Barbara's eyes on the odd wardrobe, and did a little twirl while leaning on his cane—when did he get a cane?—to show off a little more.

"Are you impressed?" he asked in his most smug voice. "J suggested I give my wardrobe an upgrade; he claims it's an excellent way to sway the crowd. Thoughts, criticisms?"

Barbara grimaced as she tried to think of something positive to say about the clothing. She rubbed her chin, before finally eking out the faint praise "It's… bold?"

"Ah, bold! Perfect!" Eddie exclaimed. "Precisely what I had aimed for; granted, I borrowed the clothes from J, but I think I'll be keeping it. I cut a more dashing figure in it than he; dare I say, roguish?"

He was very clearly admiring himself a little too much; Barbara checked around to see if there was some reflective surface he was staring into to get him on this train of thought. She found none, however, and decided her best bet was to find some way to remove him so she could go find someone else to talk to.

"Yeah, definitely very roguish!" Barbara encouraged. "Say, speaking of J, shouldn't you be getting ready for your act?"

Eddie's face went paler than usual, and his expression drooped like he'd failed a test. "Oh, crud! You're right, we're quite early on the schedule! Thank you, dear, you're a lifesaver!" He spun on his heel to go dashing inside, but Barbara grabbed him by the shoulder before he could get far.

"Hey, uh, before you go—you seen Bruce anywhere?"

Eddie took a moment to think about it, before snapping his gloved fingers. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I think I did spot him rehearsing in the band room. But now, Babs, I _really_ need to move. Ta-ta, enjoy the show!"

Eddie walked inside the school, whistling to himself as he went, leaving Barbara to contemplate how he had changed. It was a minute one, but he had been spending a bit less time obsessing over her lately, and even seemed almost, how could she put it, outgoing? She'd seen him making conversation with others at lunch, rather than hovering around her every day-it was only _most_ days now. It was good that he was finally getting other friends; even if they _were_ people like J…

On second thought, she decided, she should probably invite him to go do something next week.

She stepped into the nigh-empty halls of Gotham High. Off down to her left, she could hear Cobblepot and his ilk laughing up a storm in his room. After hours, the smoke wasn't even hidden, and steadily drifted out of the crack beneath the door. She glanced over at a map to assure herself she was heading the right day. Even this far into the year, she had difficulty remembering the fastest way to the band room. It was a room added sort of as an afterthought; stuck behind the auditorium and only accessible through the back of the stage, or a small hallway across from the art room. That would be down, and then a left, and then… yes, she was fairly certain she knew the route this time.

She didn't pass a soul on her way through the halls. Everyone who was still bothering to be around this place was either holed up in a club room or waiting for the show in the auditorium. She'd considered, briefly, joining a club, but the thought was never very enticing. Her dad has suggested she join the book club back in her freshman year; but that was silly, she had responded. _I can read on my own; other people just distract me._

The more she looked back on that year, the more she understood how she had managed to retain zero knowledge of the school's inner workings.

She came up to the art room, and turned left on instinct. The small door waiting for her led into a featureless white hallway, and the first door on the right had a plaque beside it labeled BAND ROOM. At the moment, it was silent, but the door was open. Feeling courageous, she stepped inside.

"Knock, knock."

Bruce was the only occupant of the room, and with an expression like a deer caught in headlights looked over at her. She was equally dumbstruck, examining his appearance up and down. He was _groomed._

He had seemingly shaved just a few hours before, with a perfectly smooth face, and eyebrows that either had their own personal attendant or were naturally more well-defined and shaped than hers—and that was AFTER half an hour of making them just right. His hair was slicked back with some form of gel, save an antenna or two jutting out over the center of his forehead. He was dressed in a gray suit, with black dress shoes and tie over a white dress shirt. He looked straight out of the '50s.

"…Wow." Barbara noted, mouth hanging open. "You actually have more shirts than that gray thing you wear every day?"

Bruce stammered for a moment as Barbara walked closer, tugging at his tight shirt collar. "Well, technically I _own_ it, but I'd have to wear it by choice to say they're really my clothes, right?"

Barbara shook her head, a scolding look on her face. "It must be nice, being so rich that you can have such weird philosophies of possession."

Bruce shrugged. "It has its ups and downs."

"That so?" Barbara asked, slumping down into a folding chair that had been left out. Bruce continued to pace around the room, holding a few sheets of paper that he was examining very closely. "That your act?" Barbara asked.

"Yep." Bruce confirmed, carefully stepping over a misplaced cello case. "A real labor of love, this one; you'll be in tears before I hit the halfway mark."

Barbara raised a finger in defiance. "Er, if this is anything like your abortion of a comedy act, they may not be _good_ tears."

"Tears are tears." Bruce said, dismissing her with a swat to her head from his paper. "They all nourish me just the same."

Barbara leaned back in her chair, letting out a rather hammy guffaw. "HA! OK, I'll give you that one was funny. You nervous?"

"Not really, but I am curious why you're here." Bruce said, finally opting to sit down in the chair next to her. "I'd heard you were sick."

Barbara leaned forward, twiddling her thumbs a bit as she chuckled nervously. "Yeah, that was just my dad overblowing stuff. He was afraid I might be kinda spooked after yesterday."

"Hey, I would be too, if I went through that." Bruce told her, leaning left to put his hand on her shoulder. She looked over and smiled at him, and he chose to keep talking. "Nobody expected you to be here, you can still head home if you need more rest."

"Thanks, Bruce. Really. But I have to get on with life sooner or later; might as well be sooner, so I can be here to watch you kick the competition's ass, right?"

Bruce utterly failed at concealing a smirk as he sniggered at his friend. "A lot of confidence in my abilities, eh?"

"Not particularly." Barbara jabbed. "But considering your best competition's J and Eddie, I'd say you've got at least a 50-50 shot at the trophy."

"Well then, I'm a shoo-in!" Bruce declared. The both of them shared a laugh at that one. Barbara felt a lightness in her chest. The thoughts of yesterday lingered in her mind; they could pounce at any time. But it was good, she thought, to know that life would go on. Her friends would still be there, her family would still be there, to support her.

The both of them looked at the clock as time wound down. It was about 3:25 now. The young miss Gordon's eyebrow arched as she tried to remember what the flyer had said. "It started at 3:40, right?"

"Counting the opening, yeah." replied Bruce, pushing Barbara's back to stand her up. "If you go now, you'll probably be there just in time to miss the principal's speech."

"Perfect!" Barbara jested, waving goodbye as she walked to the door. "Good luck, Bruce!"

"Er, you mean 'break a leg', right?" the startled-looking boy asked. Barbara shook her head as she prepared to step out the door.

"Nah. People've been doing that for so long, I figure fate's gotten savvy by now, and saying that'll probably actually get your leg actually broken or something. So, _good luck._"

"Fine, fine." Bruce said, dismissing her with a wave. "Get me killed by bad juju overdose, what do I care?"

Barbara made no effort to suppress her malicious laughter as she left the band room, maneuvering back the way she came to get to the auditorium. There were doors coming in from nearly every side in the remodeled room; WayneTech and its many branches and sister companies had made quite sure there would be no more fiascos like the pileup of crowded students that occurred during the catastrophic fire. She avoided the, however, preferring to go in through the door at the rear, to avoid attracting too much attention.

She stepped in, to find a sparsely-crowded hall, with dazed and bored students idly chattering. By the looks of things, the principal had indeed just left; someone in the tech booth was playing music for some background noise until the acts began. Was that IAMX? Barbara wondered to herself if the teachers were bad at monitoring the content at these things, or if they just didn't care.

It was all the same to her, really; she picked a seat near the center, but quite far back. She could see the stage clearly from where she was, freshly cleared and cleaned for today, and found some sort of pamphlet for the event in the back of the chair in front of her. She plucked it out, unfolding it to read who was up first. Bruce was third on the list, right in front of… Arnold. She tried to avert her eyes from the boy's name, hoping to forget it for as long as possible. She chose to read the first act on the list instead, and almost immediately felt no better at all.

"Eddie Nashton and J, 'In Which Pies Shall Be Thrown, Yucks Shall Be Had, et cetera."

She buried her face in her hands, silently regretting her decision to come to the talent show.


	12. Chapter 12

The curtains on the stage were drawn wide, and Barbara's eyes were drawn to it with all the other students. Off in the corner was a piano, cloaked in shadow and belting out some kind of ragtimey tune. At the forefront of the stage, all alone, was Eddie Nashton, all dressed up in his suit and bathed in a spotlight. The rest of the stage was darkness. He was glaring out into the audience, holding a hand over his eyes to shield them, as if he were looking for someone.

"Ah!" he said, taken aback at the appearance of the audience. "Greetings, everyone! Say, I've been looking for someone, perhaps you could help? About yea tall," he demonstrated by holding his cane up to the proper height. "slicked-back hair, smiles a lot? I've been looking for him everywhere, and it's almost time for our act—"

"DID SOMEBODY SAY TIME?"

Something like cables being released was heard from above the stage, and down came crashing a _grandfather clock_, on top of which was straddled J himself, dressed in a magenta suit and green tie to contrast with Eddie's clothing. The oversized timepiece came down right on top of Eddie, who with a terrified squeal disappeared from sight. The bottom third or so of the clock shattered on impact, leaving the rest standing erect. On top of it all J seemed happier than a child on Christmas morning, and with a significant bounce in his step hopped off and took a few strides towards the audience.

"Evenin', folks!" he shouted, accompanied by a big wave of an arm. "Ready for a cornucopia of tricks, yucks, and japery?!"

The grandfather clock's door swung open with a pronounced creak, and a very disoriented Eddie asked, "Uh… what's japery?"

J took a single stride back, and slammed the door in Eddie's face. "Making your day worse, more or less." He turned back to the audience. "Remember! Every trick we perform here tonight took strenuous, rigorous minutes of preparation! We are _trained professionals_, folks!"

A back door swung out from the clock, and Eddie stumbled out. J slyly pointed at his companion with a thumb and feigned a whisper to the audience. "'Cept him. New intern, pretty high turnover rate if ya know what I mean…_hrk_" he demonstrated by making the proper sound effects and making a motion to suggest self-strangulation.

Barbara was still processing the clock.

"So, Eddie!" J asked, beaming as he threw an arm around his pal's shoulder. "Tell the good little boys and girls, what it's like in showbiz."

"W-well, it's, er, a little odd! Kind of like just getting hit with a jet of cold water out of nowhere!"

"Really?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

Eddie, who by now had managed to discreetly slip his hand inside of his jacket, retrieved a bottle of seltzer water and sent it splashing straight into J's face. Even Barbara had to chuckle a little at the look of utter displeasure on J's face. The class clown looked at his assistant, who was still giggling almost uncontrollably. A glint of malicious mischief flashed in the taller student's eyes.

"Say, Eddie, is it true that you're going to Florida soon?"

The boy looked puzzled. "Er, no?"

"Really?" J asked, shifting his foot to press an inconspicuous button to his right. Eddie was so focused on J he apparently couldn't see the floor opening in front of him. "Because I could've sworn I'd heard you'd be taking quite the _trip_ soon!"

A shove to the back and a sweeping foot from the front both caught Eddie at once, and with a squeal he went careening into the pit. The sound of crashing cymbals, drums, and other assorted items came up from below, and behind her Barbara could hear Mr. M, director of the music department, bellowing in bewildered protest.

"We don't even _have_ a trap door in here, how did you do that?!"

"Anything's possible when you believe!" J responded from the stage, clasping his hands together and giving the cheesiest grin possible. He reverted to his old self quickly, and began to pace. "Now, for my next trick, I'm gonna need a—"

_BZZZZZZT._

"—eh… what?"

"Your time is up." announced a bemused Mr. Doll, having been drafted as the judge for the day's events.

"_What?!"_

"All students have three minutes to perform their acts. You are _out of time_, Mr. J."

"No way that was three minutes, ya crook!" J hissed back.

"Well, you did receive a few deductions for _vandalizing the stage, and destroying a grandfather clock._"

"Oh come on, that's Grade-A comedy right there!" J pleaded, throwing his hands out in a spastic motion. Suddenly, his demeanor shifted from urgency to a very low anger. He reached down into the trapdoor, helping Eddie out and standing him back on his feet. He pointed a gun-shaped hand at the judge.

"You ain't heard the last of this, teach."

"I'm quite certain I have. Bring the next contestant up, please."

J led Eddie backstage, grumbling and cursing to himself all the way. Up in the audience, Barbara's expression could best be described as horror.

"What the hell did I just watch?"

Karen Beecher was up next, her and several friends performing a dance routine to a song Barbara had never heard—and she reckoned, she never wished to hear again. Truth be told, she was hardly paying any attention to what was happening. Her mind, try as she might to avoid it, kept drifting back to two things: Bruce, and Arnold.

She was excited for Bruce's act. Honest, she assured herself. She continued to speculate just what he would be doing. Clearly, it had to be something musical if he was hanging out in the band room. _Does he sing? Can he play the piano? Or cello? Maybe he has a secret passion for ska or something?_

Beyond an admittedly amusing image of Bruce trying to play "Beer", that line of thought was going nowhere. It was better, though, than worrying about her other friend. Her ears pricked up every few minutes, questioning if that little noise that might not have even been there was police sirens. _It couldn't be Arnold. He's just a wimpy little kid, he'd never hurt anyone. He saved me! But… Bruce sounded so convinced. Oh, just shoot me now._

Before she knew it, Karen's act was over, and was leaving the stage to mild applause. She saw a familiar face shuffle down the aisle and sit next to her, though not familiar in an entirely good way.

"Sup, Babs?"

"…Hi, J."

"You down too?" he asked in a voice she wasn't entirely sure was mocking. "No need to get all teary-eyed, kiddo, but thanks for the sentiment towards my appalling defeat. These things happen, y'know."

Barbara was about to respond, but as she opened her mouth, realized that she absolutely did not want anything to do with this conversation. She opted to shut herself up and direct her attention back to the stage. For what it was worth, J seemed to respect her choice and didn't speak to her again. Though that just made her worry what he was planning.

The stage had changed now. Where before there was a boombox on a chair, there was now over a dozen empty chairs, with music stands holding several sheets of music lined along the back. A lone microphone had been placed near the front. A lone drummer was already situated at his station, waiting for the others to arrive. He was dressed in a full-on tuxedo. Several moments later, a procession of musicians marched out to their stations, several helping each other carry their large instruments. A string bass, several smaller stringed instruments and one mighty brass section made up the ensemble. Once again, Barbara lamented the insane lengths her rich friend could go to for something this trivial.

At long last, the lights dimmed as the last person walked onstage. A spotlight shined brightly on Bruce himself, standing at the microphone. He coughed a couple times, before leaning forward and speaking in a low, smooth tone.

"Hi, I'm Bruce and these folks behind me are some old acquaintances of mine, The Savharmonics, and we're gonna be performing one of the old classics."

He turned around and pointed to the string section. "Hit it!"

The strings began to play a light, warbling tone as the brass kicked in. Bruce turned back, waiting for his cue, and at the proper lull jumped in with a tonally-perfect singing voice.

_Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away_

_If you can use some exotic booze, there's a bar in far Bombay_

_Come and fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away…_

Barbara's jaw dropped as she watched from afar. Sinatra. Of course it would be Sinatra. But more than the music choice, he was _good._ Bruce's words were flowing out like they were natural to him, keeping an unorthodox but still well-fit rhythm with the music playing. It was less like a recitation and more of a remix. The music and the words were familiar, but he swapped up the beat in little ways, like an actual lounge singer might.

And all the while she felt a strange sensation. She couldn't put it into words, but if she tried, the closest she could come to was envy. How was Bruce so darned _perfect?_ He was rich, handsome as hell, he could sing, how was anyone supposed to compete with that? She'd manage to lose herself in her thoughts, she'd managed to miss the chorus.

_Weather-wise it's such a lovely day_

_Just say the words and we'll beat the birds down_

_Down to Ac-Apulco babe,_

She focused back at the performance, and for a brief moment their eyes locked. He was staring dead at her.

_It's perfect for a flying honeymoon, they say…_

A raging inferno burned just beneath Barbara's skin, and she ducked out of sight to try and conceal the furious blush her face was displaying. As she hunched up she felt an elbow jab into her ribs. She glared up at J, who had a knowing and all-too-smug grin on his face.

"Eh? Eh? Was I right or what?"

"…Shut up!" Barbara growled.

The rest of Bruce's song went by smoothly. His voice carried loud and strong, yet nearly as suave as Sinatra himself. Or maybe Barbara was just hearing it that way because—NOPE. No, she told herself. Just no.

At the end of the three minutes, almost precisely, the music came to an end. A thunderous applause roared as the band stood up alongside Bruce to perform their bows. Even Professor Doll was standing, applauding and hollering with the rest. Barbara smiled to herself; of course he'd be a Sinatra fan, he was probably old enough to know the guy.

Bruce took a little more time than a humble person should have to soak in that applause, before finally leading the band backstage. Barbara leaned back into her chair. That was certainly something else. But the fun was over now; one act left that she cared about, and he was next. This would either be the proof she needed of Arnold's innocence, or Garfield all over again. She made a silent prayer that it was the former.

* * *

Backstage, a little man in a white dress shirt and black pants was jittering nervously, holding a stunted Mafioso in his hands.

"You scared, kid?"

"Y-y-yeah."

"Don't be. I'm right here, y'ain't got nothin' to be scared of. Let's knock 'em dead, pal."

Arnold gulped. "O-okay… pal."

* * *

Barbara looked up and to her left, to see Bruce shimmying down to the empty seat next to her.

"Hey." He said shortly, sporting a strange smile. Was he… nervous?

"Um… hey." Barbara replied, trying to avoid too much eye contact.

"So, did I break a leg?"

"You were walking just fine a second ago."

"Funny, funny." Bruce said, trying to sound annoyed. But the look on his face betrayed that ruse.

"You did great," Barbara said, reaching out a hand to grab his shoulder. But she stopped, halfway through, and lowered it. Try as she might, she wasn't sure why she did. "you've already got this thing in the bag. Don't sweat the small stuff."

"Heh. All right, then."

He had something on his lips, metaphorically speaking. There was something he wanted to say, Barbara only wish she knew what. She had a feeling she knew, though, when the curtains opened one again to reveal a little boy on the stage. The boy, Arnold, was holding a puppet in his hands, dressed just like a gangster from a century ago, in his little suit. On a chair next to them sat a bottle of water and a violin case.

"Uh… hello." The boy said. "I-I'm Arnold and… and this is—"

"Sad is what it is." The puppet cut in. Arnold stopped abruptly and looked at his puppet, who immediately stared straight back. This elicited a few chuckles. The two of them glared at each other, both leaning in a bit further, before Scarface spoke.

"I. Will. Never. Blink."

That one got some fairly strong laughter from the crowd, earning a harrumph of disappointment and jealousy from J.

"So you gonna tell dese guys who I am, or what?"

"I—you—ugh."Arnold turned back to the audience. "This is—"

"_I_," the puppet said, stealing the spotlight back to him again and earning yet more laughs. "am none other than the astoundin', mesmerizin' SCARFACE!"

Silence.

Arnold looked at Scarface. "Uh, I don't think they know who you are."

Scarface slowly turned back towards Arnold. "They what?"

"They, er, they don't know who you are—"

"Get the flamethrower."

That one was mixed. A few of the more brash students cracked up at that one. The rest were unsure of what to say to the sociopathic puppet on stage. Least of all, Bruce and Barbara, who shared a quick glance in confusion. This wasn't quite the proof of innocence that Gordon was hoping for.

"M-maybe you could show them in a way that's more…"

"Thorough?"

"Sane."

Scarface sighed, relenting as more students laughed at the newest joke. "Well, all right then, how's about we—"

They both stopped. Barbara and Bruce froze in place as well. Everyone could hear the sound well enough, but only those four could recognize the significance of the steadily increasing sound of police sirens.

"—Er, how's about we get ourselves a volunteer, eh? Who wants to join us up 'ere?"

Several dozen hands went out throughout the auditorium, but the puppet already knew exactly who he was aiming for.

"Hm… choices, choices… how about the pretty dame up dere wit' the red hair?"

All at once, every eye in the auditorium turned to Barbara. An icy chill went up her spine, and she tried desperately not to look afraid. But how could she not be? To be singled out, with so much on the line. Her eyes slowly drifted to her left. Bruce was staring back at her, imploring her with his expression: Don't.

She looked back towards the stage. Arnold was waiting, a blank look on his face. She couldn't read that, she had no inkling what it might mean.

"C'mon, toots," J whispered in her ear. "get the show on the road!"

Barbara steeled her nerves, and she stood. She slowly shimmied out of her aisle, and began to walk towards the stage. This was it. She wanted nothing more than to run away, screaming, but she knew that wasn't right. Arnold needed this chance, an opportunity to prove himself innocent. If he didn't get that, then what use was she as a friend?

Every step taken felt like a marathon, some ungodly distance trekked. It was far too late now. She took the last few steps onto the stage, to a smattering of applause from oblivious students. She took her place next to Arnold, and looked at him. His face was blank. _I should have known. The only one here right now is…_

"Tell these good ladies'n'gents yer name, sweet cheeks."

The puppet. It was always the puppet.

"B-Barbara…"

"Well, Barbara, lemme ask ya a question…"

Barbara watched as Arnold undid the locks and buckles on the violin case.

"Please," she whispered. "don't do this Arnold." She could feel the sweat pouring down her brow. But the boy moved like an automaton. At long last, he undid the last buckle, and Scarface spoke again.

"Did you know, Barbara that puppets can do magic tricks?"

"T-they can?"

"Oh yes…" Scarface said. "You're gonna be helpin' me with my biggest trick of all. We'll be making two men…"

_THWACK_

_CH-CHICK_

Every student in the hall ducked towards the floor as the back doors to the auditorium were kicked down, and police officers began to pour in. But they were anticipated, and were stopped dead in their tracks as the violin case was flung open, and a small shotgun, clutched in the puppet's hands and freshly cocked was shoved up to Barbara's temple. The feeling of the cold barrel on flesh was unlike anything she could describe. For all its chill, all she could recall was blazing fire…

"…and one little girl, _disappear!"_


	13. Chapter 13

The charging police officers stumbled, nearly tripping over themselves as they ground to a halt. They couldn't dare get closer with a hostage situation on their hands. Bruce, however, was already moving like a man possessed. He had ducked into the side aisles, and was no more than ten feet to the door. _Just outside, first classroom to the right, broom closet. Need the suit._

Ducked behind a seat, he prepared to move again.

_BANG_

The sound of a gunshot froze him in place, and ice stabbed through his veins. Fear overtook him, and he dared a look back at the stage.

Barbara was still in danger; but she was unharmed, for now. Relief. But the puppet was no longer the only one holding the gun. Arnold Wesker tightly clutched a small pistol in his left hand, his body trembling and convulsing as he held it high in the air; its tip was trailing little wisps of smoke. He was no longer the puppeteer; he was the puppet.

"Back up!" Scarface yelled. "Back da hell up, or I swear I'm gonna blow this dame's goddamn brains out, ya hear?!"

The police officers, eight in number and armed to the teeth, found themselves outplayed by a small boy and his puppet. They holstered their weapons and threw up their hands, very deliberately showing no intention of harm as they backed out of the auditorium, closing the door behind them as Scarface jeered them further on.

"Yeah, dat's right! Nobody messes with th' Ventriloquist, y'goddit?"

"P-p-pal?" Arnold asked, eyes darting to the side to look at him. "Can we let Barbara go now? I just want t-to go…"

"No, we _can't_." Scarface growled. "Ya think those cops're really done wit' us? They'll just come in some otha way. We've gotta stay on top'a our game. Now c'mon. Help me figger a way outta this joint… AND NONE'A YOUSE EVEN _THINK_'A MOVIN'!" He added, taking a second to have Arnold wave his pistol around at the audience. They did their part by sinking into their seats, trapped in fearful silence.

"Arnold…" Barbara whispered to the boy, afraid to turn around and face him. "This isn't right… please—"

"HEY." Scarface yelled, digging the barrel of his shotgun deeper into her temple. "Don't you say anotha filthy word t' my pal, ya hear? No more corruption."

Barbara bit her lip, and slowly nodded in compliance. Hot tears streaked out of the corners of her eyes.

Ahead and above, Bruce watched on with gritted teeth, ducked into an aisle of seats so as not to arouse suspicion. _Damn it… how do I get out of here?_

As if to answer him, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Wayne frantically dug it out and checked the text he'd received.

_Yo Bruce. Where'd you go?_

He recognized the number. Or at least, he thought he did. He looked up, and down a few rows to where he had been seated before. Sure enough, J had turned in his direction, and was waggling his eyebrows at him in some attempt of communication. He furrowed his own brow back at him for the distraction, when it hit him.

This could be it.

He leaned down, sending a text back.

_J. I need to get out of here, and help the police get in here. Can you distract Scarface so he doesn't notice me?_

He looked down at the class clown for confirmation or denial. To his satisfaction, the greasy-haired boy gave a firm salute, and a moment later he received a reply.

_You can count on me, Chief!_

Bruce allowed himself a smile, and he moved to the edge of his seat, ready to move whenever J gave him his opening.

Down on stage, Scarface and Arnold were making hushed whispers towards each other. Barbara strained her ears to listen in, but they were too good at it. It made sense, she supposed. Maybe they were just whispering nonsense, and the actual conversation was going on all in Arnold's head? Her thoughts drifted to her family. Her father, her mother… even her bratty little brother. Even if she survived this, she wondered, how much longer could she last? She seemed to have a knack for falling into absurdly dangerous situations.

"YOO-HOO~"

Her lamentations were stopped by the sing-song call of someone in the audience she sorely wished not to hear from.

"The hell?" Scarface muttered, he and Arnold looking the same way as the Gordon girl to see J with his hand patiently raised. He looked eager, like he had something to say.

"What d'ya want?" Scarface called, irritated. "An' make it good, or I'm shootin' YOU after this dame!"

Barbara's mind focused on a single thought. _Pleasebegoodpleasebegoodplea sebegood_

J looked dumbstruck for a moment, as if he were surprised he was actually called on. This devolved to a relaxed smile as he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the face of one thoroughly mortified Vicki Vale, as if to calm himself before speaking.

"Wellll…" he began with a slow drawl. He developed an almost concerned expression as he said "Y'see, I've been following the clock for a while now, and you guys went out of time a while back."

Scarface and Arnold shared a mystified glance. Neither them, nor Barbara, who was solely focused on the idiot in the magenta suit, noticed a shadow slip out a door and into the hallways of Gotham High.

A confused "What?" was all Arnold was able to get out. Scarface, however, was far more vocal.

"You… little… runt. You actually think this is a game?"

"If it is," J retorted, stifling a yawn. "it's a pretty piss-poor one. I mean, at this rate you're _never_ gonna win that trophy—"

"I'll make yer HEAD a trophy in another couple'a seconds, kid!" Scarface roared. He gingerly brushed the trigger with a finger as he pressed the barrel further against Barbara's skin. "Right after I ruin my first one!"

J threw his hands up in defeat, but not without a miffed expression to complement it. "Fine, fine!" he said, falling back down in his seat and crossing his legs dramatically. "Try'n ask a few questions, and the Man shuts ya down! No wonder our country's going down the toilet…"

With that odd diversion ceased, Scarface and Arnold continued whispering their plans to one another. All Barbara could think was "What the _hell_ did I just watch?!"

Arnold and Scarface were huddled close, the former making his protests.

"C'mon, pal, we've gotta think of something. I… I don't think I can go through with this."

"What?!"

"Barbara's my friend, Scar! So what she knows? E-everybody knows now! Let's just, let's just find a new city. Start over one more time, right?"

The look of sheer malevolence on Scarface's visage was difficult for Arnold to comprehend. Those beady little eyes bore a hole straight into the deepest recesses of his soul.

"Kid, ya think you c'n just _back out _on me this far in? We had a plan, dammit, and I'm not lettin' you chicken out 'cause you've got cold feet! We make chunky salsa outta this girl, then we book it soon as we get an openin'."

"But that doesn't—"

"Are you… questionin' me?"

Arnold frantically tried to recover when his face faulted into a terrified look. "N-no, pal! Honest!"

"After all I've done fer you, you try an' screw me like this?! I oughta blow a couple'a holes in yer… yer… ahh, cripes…"

Arnold, confused at the sudden fear in Scarface, slowly turned his head to follow his vision. Shadows draped the areas behind the curtains, pitch blackness wherever there wasn't a spotlight. And in that darkness resided a pair of glowing, white eyes. A growling, booming and baritone voice thundered out, so the whole auditorium could hear his commanding tone.

"Let her go. _Now._"

The whole auditorium, both students and the drab Professor Doll, erupted in cheers as Batman strode onto the stage, tightly gripping a remote with three dials.

"Kid, switch!" Scarface shouted. Arnold knew precisely what he meant, and with no time left to question his choices pressed his handgun up to Barbara's throat. Scarface pointed the shotgun straight at the Bat, who was now towering over them, not ten feet away. The initial cheers fell into a hushed silence, as the crowd waited for the resolution of this stand-off.

Barbara looked out of the corner of her eye, rapturous joy swelling up inside of her. She was saved.

"You do understand," Batman asked in his firm voice. "that you've lost, don't you Scarface? There are police raids going on right now, in every holdout you've built over the last few weeks. You shouldn't have kept your eggs in one basket."

Scarface let a low growl slowly slip out of his throat as he considered his tactical options. "Where did ya find out?"

"Arnold's apartment. You didn't clean it very well."

"Damn." The puppet said. "So ya know the whole story. But that still doesn't explain how you found the safehouses."

"Tapping your communications." The vigilante replied. Barbara's vision was cloudy around the peripherals, but she swore she could see a smirk stretching the man's face. "Your men are very lackluster with their address codenames."

"Always knew those luggoons'd be my downfall. But ya still don't stand a chance 'ere, Bats. I've got the hostage, and you're right in my line'a fire. Take another step closer, an' she's worm-food."

Batman was silent for a moment, still as a gothic statue. Then, he took a single, confident step forward.

Scarface roared in defiance. "Ya think you can _mock me_ like that?! Kid, do it! SHOOT HER."

Barbara's entire world stopped, and froze in that single instant. Her mouth dropped open, to scream something. Be it a protest, or some plea to Arnold's better sensibilities, her higher faculties could not be sure. Her eyes shot wide, reacting both to the news and the unbearable chill coursing through her. The pistol was pressed to close to her, she could almost feel Arnold's finger as he squeezed the trigger.

"I'm sorry, Barbara…"

_Click_

No bullet. No gunshot. Barbara's heart pounded like a jackhammer in her chest, but all that meant to her was that it was beating at all. A tension that had filled the room, fit to burst, now slowly began to subside. Startled, Arnold dropped his weapon and took a few steps away from Barbara. Scarface kept his shotgun trained on the Bat, in vain.

"W-whaddid ya do to th' kid's gun?" Scarface demanded. Batman furrowed his brow, and explained.

"You're still using the same weapons, from the same shipment. I didn't even have to adjust the dials from last time."

He instantly began to march forward, tucking away the box and cracking his knuckles. He passed Barbara, who watched on with the others as he came down on the pair of criminals. "Now say goodnight."

Arnold hunched up, bracing for impact and shielding himself with his free hand. Scarface prepared to do the same, as the Bat got within two feet, fist raised.

But then he smiled. "Actually…"

_BOOM_

The room went silent as if the air itself had been sucked away, and they were drifting in the vacuum of space. A full burst of shot dug into the Batman's stomach, tearing away the costume above and the flesh beneath. Blood trailed behind him as he was picked up off of his feet, falling back almost five feet before he crashed, back-first onto the ground. He was still. The blood was still leaking, red and viscous onto the stage as Arnold swaggered up to him. Scarface leaned down close, to look the Bat in the eye.

"…this shotgun here? I've had it for months. Did ya honestly think my gang'd fall fer yer little trick twice? Nice try, Bats."

The man in the cowl made no response, verbal or physical. With a huff, Scarface leaned back and looked at Arnold, who by now was trembling so greatly he appeared to be dying of the cold.

"C'mon kid, we need to hightail it. The cop'll be comin' in hostage or no, now that we've started the shootin'."

Arnold nodded hesitantly. Scarface leveled his shotgun at Barbara Gordon. The girl recoiled, using her hands to shield her face as she convulsed in horror. But after a long moment of deliberation, the puppet lowered his weapon.

"…Thank you." Arnold whispered, so low only his companion and his friend onstage could hear him. Before anything else could occur, the pair went dashing through a rear exit to the stage.

Barbara waited until they were no longer visible, and collapses to her knees. She tried to take a breath, and only came up with a ragged sob. _Why does this keep HAPPENING to me!_

She looked up, misty-eyed, at the body of the Bat lying twisted on the stage. She stared at his chest closely, and saw minute movements. He was breathing. On instinct, she scrambled over on her hands and knees, resting at the side of his head. His skin was smooth, and young beneath that cowl. Could he really be a… a kid?

"B-Batman?" she asked, desperate for a reply. His closed eyes, black as the night, flickered open, and she saw two slits of white contacts that seemed to glow. His mouth twitched, as he whispered.

"Barbara…"

She leaned in over him, confused. The bitter, confused tears she'd been shedding for minutes now splashed down on the hero's cowl as she asked, "W-why do you know my name?"

The Bat ignored her plea. "Stop… s-stop Arnold. Before he escapes…"

Barbara shook her head, more out of further bewilderment than active refusal. "W-what?! I can't stop him. He'll—he'll kill me!"

"N-no… not you." Batman whispered insistently. "Not his friend…"

Barbara faltered. She knew, on some level, he was right. Only she was still in a position to end this. But still…

"I—I'm not a hero, like you, Batman." She almost cried more than spoke. "I can't fight criminals, I—"

She was stopped dead in her tracks. A gloved hand, warm and yet foreign and chilled, cupped her cheek.

"Exactly." Batman said, a bit more firmly than his last words. "Don't fight him. _Save _him."

It clicked. Barbara at last understood what she needed to do. Sniffing back the gunk in her nostrils, she frantically nodded as she forced herself back up to her feet. "Will you be all right?"

"Just go. I'll catch up."

Barbara sprinted after Arnold, heading out the last door she'd seen him take. _Which way did he go?_

Outside, behind Gotham High, Arnold and Scarface were huddled in front of a dumpster, hugging the wall of the school closely. They had taken the rear exit, just through the library. No one patrolled the rear parking lot, and it seemed in their attempt at a quick strike the police had not fully surrounded the building yet. This was their last chance at rest before the final dash into the city.

Arnold was sniffling to himself. Scarface looked at him, confused. "What'sa matter, pal?"

"E-everything's gone so _wrong_, Scar. I-I didn't want any of this…"

"You can still make it right, Arnold."

The little boy yelped in surprise, and Scarface instantly aimed his shotgun at her as Barbara Gordon walked into view, hands raised in surrender. She was visibly trembling, and her chest rose and fell at a rapid rate, but her expression was firm and resolute.

"I spare yer life and ya _still _come t' die, dame? Now that, that's comedy!"

She glared at the little puppet. "I didn't come here to talk to you, wormwood. I'm here to talk to Arnold."

Wesker looked up at her, a perplexed expression on his face. It was rare that someone preferred talking to him over Scarface, in his experience.

"R-really—"

"Well, TOO BAD!" Scarface yelled, cutting the boy off. "I'm runnin' this little operation, so if you got somethin' to say, say it to me!"

Barbara gave him another disapproving look. She said, quite explicitly to Arnold, "I don't know what your old life was like. But, the horrible things you must've went through, to turn to _that_ for help… I can't even imagine them. But, you've got a new home now. A new _friend_." She added, gesturing at herself. She could see the tiniest hint of a smile curling up at the edges of Arnold's mouth.

"You know this isn't right. You can't go through with this—look at all the people your 'pal' has hurt. Do you really want that?"

"N-no…"

"Then do something about it."

She waited for a reaction, but it came not from Arnold, but from the puppet. He was practically cackling. She snarled at him, and demanded "What are you laughing about, you little… imp?"

His voice was dripping with self-satisfaction as he said, "Ya really don't get it, do ya bitch? Do you really, honestly think I came from _nowhere? _All those little speeches he told ya, how did they go again… 'so much hatred an—and _yelling_. Daily beatings, hateful words, so much plotting and scheming…'"

The grin on his face was nothing but malicious. "He did that."

Barbara's eyebrows went up in shock, and only the strongest application of her will kept the rest of her face following suit.

"Yeah, and here you were thinkin' he was the _victim,_ right? Oh, he was a violent little kid… teachers, police, even his own parents all knew he was just a psychopath wit' no hope. He didn't have any friends. So he made _me. _Somebody to scheme th' schemes and plan th' plans so he could still be the sweet widdle boy everybody loved. So yeah. Think this little wretch is still worthy'a savin', when the only one who can love 'im is a MOB BOSS?!"

Arnold stared at Scarface in absolute horror, water welling up in his eyes. "P-p-pal…"

Scarface looked at him and growled, "SHUDDIT, RUNT! Ya never knew when to keep yer mouth shut, so I guess I'll just start tellin' ya how to do THAT, too! Not like I don't already handle all yer problems… Now come on. Let's waste this girl and get going."

Barbara's hands dropped to her side, and her head bowed a bit. But she never took her eyes off of Arnold. He looked back at her now, too, and asked.

"You h-hate me now, too, don't you? Just like everyone else…"

Barbara tried to speak, but her breath caught in her throat. She took one last breath, and said… "No."

Arnold's face lit up, but was marred by surprise.

"Part of me wants to, Arnold; really, really badly, for all the people you and your friend have hurt. But… nobody's beyond help. And as far as I'm concerned, Scarface took responsibility for your actions the moment he was born."

Scarface looked back and forth between the girl, and the increasingly hopeful look on Arnold's face. "D-don't listen to her, Arnold… pal?"

Arnold stood, to be closer to eye level. "Y-you do… but the police won't. They'll still call me a monster, and they'll—"

He stopped when Barbara stepped forward, ignoring the shouts and protests of Scarface, and held his hand tightly. "They'll see what you really are." She insisted. "A sweet boy, who's been in a bad situation all his life, and who needs help. They won't let you go, for a long time. But you'll be in a place where people can help you. Where people care about your well-being."

Arnold, and even Scarface, were silent as he looked up at her. The silence hung in the air for a moment, lingering between them. Arnold stuttered, and in a soft voice, asked, "Will you come visit me?"

Barbara gave the sweetest smile she could looking at him. "As often as you want me to."

And all at once, Arnold's entire demeanor changed. The timidity remained, but where fear and terror had been, an inescapably bright smile grew. He removed his hand from Scarface's back, who was beginning to scream and rant curses. He began to step towards the dumpster.

"K-kid?! Pal?! What the hell are you doin'?! Don't listen to this dame, she's tryin' to—to trick ya! Split us up! Don't do it, kid, don't do it! YOU SON OF A—"

_SLAM_

The lid of the dumpster came crashing down, just a second after the puppet and his weapon were tossed in. NO more sounds came from within. Arnold Wesker turned back to face Barbara, a look of such confusion and happiness that even she felt teary-eyed looking at him.

"…I'm free."

He took a sharp breath, lunged forward and wrapped his arms around the girl, who jumped in shock for a second. But that passed quickly, and she returned the gesture. The hug lasted for only a few brief, warming moments, until Arnold released her and stepped away. He waved at her one last time, and began walking around the corner of the building.

"Thank you, Barbara." He said as he went. "I'm going to go and turn myself in now. See you soon?"

"Of course!" she exclaimed back. He nodded in approval.

"G-good… and, Barbara? I think your friend needs your help."

He turned the corner, now fully out of sight, and the realization of what he meant hit her like a ton of bricks. Barbara turned and ran back the way she came, to find Batman stumbling out the door she had taken; his gut was still leaking blood, the gray of the lower half of his suit now stained a deep red. He was panting heavily, and nearly fell over.

Barbara intercepted him in time, and hoisted him up by using herself as a balance.

"Oh, god…" she whispered. "We have to get you to a hospital!"

"No." Batman insisted. He clicked a small button on his belt, and Barbara heard a sound coming from beyond the edge of the school parking lot.

The roar of an engine.

Out of the darkness, the shadows of the edges of the lot, came a vehicle Barbara could hardly describe. It was not a car, or any type of civilian transport she had ever seen. It was not a tank, either. It was something in between, on six wheels wider than any she'd seen, lower in the front than the back, and coated in armor plating, all as sleek and black as its owners cowl.

The strange car thundered up beside them before idling, and the top of it retracted to reveal a spacious interior.

"Get me… inside." He commanded Barbara. His eyes were flickering.

"Batman?" she asked frantically, trying to keep him focused and conscious. "Don't bleed out, c'mon, stay with me."

"Get us inside… then Alfred… will get us… home…"

His head slumped over, and he passed out fully. But all Barbara could think of was that name.

Alfred?

She was no athlete, but she had natural strength. Barbara dragged Batman's unconscious body to the side of the car, and with all the effort she could muster hefted him inside, sitting him down in the passenger seat. She jumped into the other chair, hardly noticing the canopy above her closing, or the red lights automatically illuminating the interior. She reached up to the Bat's face and carefully grabbed hold beneath the surface of the cowl, where it ended halfway down from his cheekbone. Then, she lifted it up and back to remove it. The material was like ceramics to the touch, but moved like something between rubber and cloth.

Her entire body went numb as the mask lifted over Batman's face—his real face—and her hand stopped after only getting it lifted as high as his hairline.

The tears came back, brought on by despairing realization and bafflement.

"Bruce?"


	14. Chapter 14

Barbara sat in the seat of the Batmobile, dumbstruck as she tried to comprehend the image of her closest friend, in the cowl of the Bat. His eyes were clamped shut, as if in pain even in his unconsciousness, and his breathing was shallow and faint. Her hand reached out slowly, to… to do what? She wasn't a doctor, she didn't have the slightest clue how to fix this. She was in some strange car-tank thing with her best friend slowly dying of blood loss, and she was just coming to terms with the realization that, for the last month, said friend had been moonlighting as a vicious psycho beating up random criminals. _How the hell am I supposed to take all of this?_

She felt her muscles seizing up, as the stress began to worm its way in. Her breaths were loud, and she groaned as she rubbed her temples, trying to understand how to respond to this situation. She wasn't sure WHAT she was about to do, but she was thankful when it stopped, thanks to the sound of a familiar voice.

"_Miss Gordon? Miss Gordon, is that you?"_

She looked up at the dashboard. Something had just been transmitted through the radio.

"H…hello?"

"_Oh, thank goodness, Miss Gordon. I thought I heard your voice."_

"Alfred? Alfred, is that you?" she asked, leaning towards the radio. "B-Bruce said you could help. Please, what's going on?!"

The butler sighed; he didn't sound displeased with her. It sounded like a weary sound, as if he'd heard news he was expecting for quite some time.

"_So it's come to that… Miss Gordon, if you're not buckled in, I suggest you do so immediately. I'll take over steering from here, and get you to the manor; I'll explain everything there."_

Not even daring to question what her sole voice of reason said at the moment, Barbara fumbled behind her until she found a seatbelt. She pulled it down and buckled herself in; not a second later, the vehicle's engine roared to life.

There were no windows like a car; but she had a monitor in front of her that gave an accurate view of what she would be seeing if there had been one. The strange vehicle was blasting through the parking lot, shredding out into the street in front of Gotham High and taking off at breakneck speed. A police blockade was directly in her path. She could see the terrified faces of the officers as they tried to comprehend the black mass barreling towards them.

Barbara shrieked, curling up into a ball in an attempt to shield herself. Thankfully, this was not needed, as cops leaped out of the way. The squad car was utterly crushed beneath the merciless wheels of the matte-black car, and it continued unabated into the heart of Gotham.

Barbara could barely stand to watch as the car leaped headlong into traffic, dodging between cars and bewildered pedestrians, even hopping onto the sidewalks at times to get through a blocked up intersection. The teenaged girl's eyes were closed, desperately waiting for the nightmare to be over, but the refined voice of Bruce's butler roused her from this state.

"_Miss Gordon, if Bruce is incapacitated, then I need to know the extent of his injuries, so I am prepared to treat him. I need you to examine the wounds, and tell me what you see."_

"W-what?!" Barbara stammered. "I can't do that!" the thought of having to look at the horrible rips in Bruce's stomach again was a thought that conflicted with her on nearly every level.

"_Miss Gordon, I know it isn't pleasant, but Master Bruce's life might be at risk. For his sake, please…"_

"Oh, god…" Barbara whimpered. She knew he was right. Against her instincts, she leaned over to look straight down at Bruce's wounds. Alfred assisted, apparently activating the seat controls, so that Bruce leaned straight back. Even unconscious, the boy groaned in pain at any motion, and made Barbara wince at the sound.

"O-OK…" she said, looking at the wide gash in his abdomen. "It's… I'm not really sure. There's a lot of blood."

"_How much, Miss Gordon? Specifically around the impact point._"

"A-a lot!" she exclaimed, forcing herself not to look away. "I-it looks really dark around where he got shot."

"_All right. Hopefully that means his blood's already clotting… I'll have to sanitize it once he gets here. How's his complexion? Breathing and pulse, as well."_

"Uh—" Barbara placed two fingers on a vein on Bruce's neck, and the back of her hand on his forehead. "His pulse is faint, but it's still going; still breathing too, it seems normal. I can' really—er—tell in this light, but his skin seems really pale; his skin's cold, too, really sweaty."

"_Good, if his breathing is normal he's still conscious and controlling his functions. Just like we practiced—"_

"PRACTICED?!" Barbara bellowed at the radio, wishing the butler were there in person so she'd have a face to snarl at. "You've been—been practicing this?! What kind of nightmare is Bruce living, how long has he been _doing this?_"

"_As I said, Miss Gordon, I will explain everything once you are here. It will only be another minute or so now; I've gathered the supplies I need, I'll be meeting you in the cave in just a moment."_

"Cave?"

What cave?

The car was driving up an isolated road now, with beautiful, red and yellow-tinted leaves falling on every side. This was the street up to Wayne Manor. They were coming up to a false intersection; the other street was a dead end, with maybe forty yards of street that stopped at a ten-foot cliff. She'd hardly paid it thought.

This is why she was so shocked when the car made a sharp turn and began speeding down that side street.

Her heart sank as she realized the bumpy ride she was in for. She reached out for the locked steering wheel in front of her, gripping it with all the strength in her hands as the car flew off the cliff. She clenched her teeth and resisted the urge to scream; the car hit the ground moments later, rocking its contents back and forth before turning back to the left and driving on.

Barbara glanced to the viewport screen and realized there was a whole other path down here; it was unconventional, and made use of a shallow stream as a makeshift path, but a car like this was more than capable of traversing unusual terrain. They began a drive up this strange route, lost in the darkness of the thick vegetation on every side. Barbara might have felt claustrophobic here, if she were not already cramped in a _much _smaller space.

Up ahead, she saw something change. There, the ever-expanding darkness seemed to stop, and… ripple.

Her mouth dropped.

"Alfred." She murmured. "Is that a waterfall?"

Silence. The mist was now visible rising up from the impact point.

"Alfred, please tell me that's not a waterfall."

No response whatsoever. Barbara groaned in anticipatory horror and recoiled yet again, waiting for the impact she felt was imminent, yet on some level knew was never coming.

The latter sense won out, and the car crashed into the waterfall with a splash. The exterior cameras were drenched, and accordingly distorted Barbara's view outside; even so, she was clearly being led down a dark tunnel. Rocks passed on either side of the car, and at the far end, a light could be seen.

The canopy above her opened, the wind whipping her hair as Barbara took in the view coming up. Above her, flocks of bats flitted around the ceiling, dark swarms just beyond sight. Her mouth dropped open as she at last passed into the source of the light.

This was certainly a cave.

A ceiling was there, but only a hundred feet above her, or more. And the space expanded at least a hundred yards in every direction horizontally. The car was on top of a steel platform, a resting place beneath a spotlight. Multiple platforms such as this were scattered around the cave, connected by walkways. On one of them sat a computer screen so large, Barbara reckoned it was half as tall as her house; and wider than it was high. But what got her attention most was the butler hurriedly approaching her with a stretcher for his young master.

"Hurry, Miss Gordon, hurry!" Alfred insisted, coming up to the side of the car and laying down the stretcher. "Quickly, get him up and hand him over to me."

Barbara did as she was told, using all the strength she had to lift her large friend up and place him in the arms of his butler; it seemed Alfred was made of tougher stuff than her, as he seemed to lay him down with such ease it hardly registered as effort for him. He waved her out of the car, to help him with the stretcher. Barbara hopped out and took the rear, with Bruce's head level with her stomach once she and Alfred made the effort to lift him.

The butler took the lead, directing Barbara across one of the walkways and towards a platform that seemed to be stocked with multiple cabinets and shelves full of medical supplies. A cold, steel table rested in the center of it, whereupon Bruce was deposited when they arrived.

Alfred darted to a cabinet, retrieving a pre-prepared syringe and flicking the tip.

"This should make him more comfortable while I settle you in and prepare for surgery—oh, dear, that cursed suit. Barbara, we'll need to free up a vein on his wrist. Remove that gauntlet, yes, either hand will do."

Barbara's mind was frantic, barely processing anything that was happening to her. She grabbed Bruce's left hand, shakily removing the article of… could it even be called clothing?

_Why am I even THINKING about that?!_

Alfred used his free hand to peel back the gray bodysuit that Bruce was wearing. It had looked armor-plated, but was as malleable as some strange halfway point between rubber an simple cloth. Once his forearm was free, Alfred leveled the syringe and injected the needle into a big, pronounced vein. Barbara could only watch helplessly at the intense pain on Bruce's face; though it quickly resided into a more serene expression, which was a relief.

Once this shift in demeanor occurred, Barbara felt a pat on her shoulder. She looked up at Alfred, who was staring down at her with a warm, if businesslike expression.

"Follow me, Miss Gordon. We'll get you upstairs while I handle the treatment of Bruce's wounds."

Barbara's face twitched in a brief moment of anger. "Upstairs? You said you'd explain what was going on!"

"And I will, after Master Bruce has been treated."

"Why not now?! Haven't I earned a right to know, after all of… of this?!"

"Yes, you have." Alfred firmly stated to her, though he dared not make physical contact. "But it is superseded by Master Bruce's right to _live._ Or do you disagree?"

Barbara's mouth opened to protest, but found no words. She eked out a small squeak, of shock and horror with her own selfishness. She bowed her head in resignation. Alfred made a tutting noise and gently pushed on her chin to lift her view back up to him; he was reedy, and exceedingly tall.

"Miss Gordon, I meant nothing by my statement; I assure you, as soon as Bruce's well-being is assured, you will be told everything. Is that OK?"

"I-…yes…"

Mr. Pennyworth nodded once, and began striding away. "Very well. Follow me, Miss Gordon, we'll get you comfortable."

Barbara followed Alfred as he led her to a stone staircase at the far end of the cave, by that massive computer, taking one long flight up to an inconspicuous door. He pushed it open, and gestured for her to enter.

She walked into a dark stairwell, and took the lead, walking up what must have been a dozen flights of stairs before coming into a dark room with no discernible exit, and a single button pad on the wall to her right. Alfred approached it and began fiddling with some sort of code; once he had it, he pressed the enter key. Barbara looked on in surprise as a bookshelf rotated ninety degrees, allowing her passage into… a very familiar room.

She stepped out next to a sofa, and immediately flashed back to the first day she'd spent in Wayne Manor. _This was that bookshelf Bruce didn't want me near…_

Alfred gestured for her to sit on the sofa, which she did, looking up at the butler as he took a deep breath, to try and maintain his composure.

"All right, Miss Gordon, I haven't been able to look closely yet, but the damage seems largely superficial. I'm a trained surgeon, with many years of experience." He leaned down and looked at her with an earnest expression. "I'm quite certain Master Bruce will pull through; but the operation will take some time. Are you all right waiting until then?"

Barbara did not hesitate in nodding. Her own stupidity had gotten Bruce hurt; the least she could do was wait an hour or two for his sake.

"Very well." Alfred acknowledged. He stood up and added, "You have free access to the kitchen, if you get hungry. I'm terribly sorry I didn't have the time to prepare anything for you, but I need to begin the surgery right away."

He stepped towards the bookcase, pulling it closed behind him. "I shall return as soon as I am able."

And with a dull thud, the bookshelf closed. And Barbara was all alone.

Feeling a weight pressing on her, Barbara leaned back into the sofa, staring up at the ceiling above her. Everything felt so… detached. She wondered, in a daze, what her father must be thinking, or her mom, or James…

She heard the jingle of metal and something jumping up onto the couch beside her. Barbara rotated her head, and found herself looking into the eyes of Bruce's demon-dog, Ace.

But try as she might to hate the mutt, she found an all-too familiar expression in those big, sad eyes.

"You worried too?" she whispered. Ace responded with a long, low whine, before laying down and sticking his massive head on her lap. Barbara couldn't help but laugh at the forward nature of the great dane, and with a pair of fingers began to repeatedly stroke the top of his head, trailing down his neck and ending between the shoulder blades.

The big dog moaned in contentment, eliciting another chuckle from Barbara. She slowly repeated the motion, over and over in time with every other tick coming from the nearby clock. This was all she did for some time she didn't care to measure, until she lazily looked down at Ace. The mutt was fast asleep, and gently snoring in the way that dogs did.

"…Sleep, huh?" she whispered. "Not a bad idea…"

She leaned her head back once more, and to the hypnotic rhythm of her arm's own motions, slowly drifted off into a desperately needed nap.


	15. Chapter 15

"Miss Gordon? … Miss Gordon?"

Barbara heard a soft voice calling her back from the nebulous realms of her dreams. Her eyes flickered open, resisting the powerful urge to continue sleeping. The pristine white room was bathed in orange light from the window behind her; the setting sun provided a serene backdrop. Her hands had their sensations return to them, and they could tell that Ace had left her at some point.

She looked up, to see Alfred setting down a chair across the coffee table from her, and taking a seat.

"…Mm… oh, god, what time is it?"

"It's 7:42, on the dot." Alfred informed her. "You needn't worry, I've already called your father, and informed her that you've opted to stay with Bruce through his treatment at the local hospital. He suffered several dreadful bullet wounds attempting to stop Arnold and his… dreadful puppet behind the school grounds."

Barbara's frown tugged further. "How is he?" she asked.

Alfred nodded, and he seemed very solemn as he said, "Master Bruce has survived the operation, and I'm certain he will recover. But his wounds were worse than my initial impression. It will be some time before he's out of bed. And now… now I believe you're owed your explanation."

Barbara straightened up on the sofa, to show that she was listening. The old butler sighed and leaned over, deciding where best to begin his tale.

"Eight years ago, my original employers, Master Thomas and Miss Martha Wayne were shot, and died, in a back alley. They were returning home from a night at the theater with Bruce, just a boy then… I still remember, the movie was an old Zorro film."

Alfred reached into his suit's pocket, retrieving a handkerchief without flourish and bringing it up to dab his glistening eyes.

"…It was Christmas Eve. I've never known the whole story… Master Bruce has never told me. All I know, is that the man responsible was just that. A man. No fantastical weapons, no psychological fractures to justify him. Just one desperate man, with a gun in his hand."

He put the handkerchief away, keeping it nicely folded and tucked in his pocket. He folded his hands as he bowed his head, resuming his story.

"I came myself to return Bruce to home… but I don't think this will ever be our home again, Miss Gordon. Inside these walls, there is an emptiness, where two happy people once resided. And I believe that stuck with Bruce, as for months he responded very little. He spent some time with your family during all of this, though I… I doubt you remember him. He spoke so little then. But one day, something changed."

Alfred pointed out the window.

"Out past the grove of apple trees, there is an old well, built in the first days of Wayne Manor. It's boarded up now, but we kept it open to the air back then. I lost Master Bruce one day, and no matter where I looked I could not find him; on a hunch, I went to that well. And down at the bottom, I could hear Master Bruce, crying and… calling for his parents."

Barbara bit her lip, but made no effort to stop Alfred. She had to hear everything.

"I reached down to pull him out, but before he reach up to me, I disturbed a swarm of bats."

The vision of the thousands of bats swarming through that tunnel came back to Barbara, and she could almost perfectly visualize the moment, the old butler lurching back in shock, Bruce crying in terror as the leathery creatures spiraled up into the air.

"Bruce shrieked in terror, but only once. Once I had finally gotten him out, he was completely, eerily silent. I took him inside, and put him in his bed for the night. But when I went to shut the blinds, he told me to stop. He asked me to leave the window open, that he had some sort of idea sprouting. I did as he wished, Miss Gordon, but when I came back the next day… there must have been a hundred bats clinging to the corners of his room."

Barbara almost felt the need to gasp, both as a courtesy and out of the sheer disgust she'd have had in the same situation.

"And Bruce was smiling, Miss Gordon. For the first time since his parents died, he was smiling. But it was… off. He told me that he'd finally learned how to do it, and when I asked him what, he told me 'Vegeance. I've finally figured out how to avenge my parents.'"

Barbara let those words mull in her thoughts. Vengeance. Is that what drove Bruce, even now? How much of him was that happy boy she knew? How much was all a lie? Had she _ever_ truly known him?

_Do I even want to know?_

"Since that night, I wager, Master Bruce had been thinking, nonstop, of how to bring about justice to the man that murdered his parents. At some point, this expanded, to encompass all criminals. He needed a way to fight them, to make them feel the same terror that he had, in that alley. Those bats provided him with the answer: a symbol. He had to become more than a man, but a symbol that the good folk, the downtrodden, could recognize as a larger than life thing to rally behind and aspire to. And it had to be something that criminals would fear; a monstrous thing, like a bogeyman. This was the conception of what Gotham recognizes as Batman."

He made a small, sweeping gesture.

"But he had no training, no way to begin this crusade. So we left the country, and we've been traveling the world for the last seven years. Bruce sought out the greatest masters in every field; detective work, combat, genius-level engineers, forensics, among others. He devoted his entire being into mastering these arts. And when he was done, we returned to Gotham, and he began this… this crusade, I suppose there's no other way to put it."

Silence overtook them, and stayed for quite some time before Barbara finally asked, "Is that everything?"

"Yes, Miss Gordon, as much as this old butler ever cares to remember again."

Barbara popped her jaw, making idle motion as she let it all sink in. So this was the real Bruce. A tragic little boy, who decided one day to become a monster, and then… he went out and did it. Was there some proper way to respond to that? She'd seen him at work; the men he fought were without a doubt the worst type of scum. But, Bruce was so… brutal fighting them. He'd shattered bones like they were twigs, sued painful shocks and gadgets that couldn't possibly have been painless in subduing them. Now she knew why he wasn't just another police officer, going for the quick and painless takedowns.

He reveled in it, savored it as he put them through hell; he likely imagined the face of that man on every one of them. Any man who broke the law was the man who killed his parents, and they'd be treated like it.

She stood up; she wasn't ready for this sort of revelation. She was beginning to enjoy her life, find light in it again. It was all a lie.

"Thank you, Alfred." She murmured, aiming herself for the nearest exit. "I should probably call my dad and get home."

She only made it a few steps before a voice called after her. "Wait."

She turned back, and Alfred was reaching after her with a silent plea in his eyes. Against her judgment, she turned around to hear him out.

"Miss Gordon, please… if you would do an old butler one favor…"

"…Yes?"

"Bruce should be waking up, soon. Would you please talk with him before you go?"

Barbara froze, a dozen protests in her mind. She was barely ready to accept what was going on at all, but confronting him? That was a can of worms she hardly wanted to think about, let alone open.

Her mouth hung open, and after a moment of hesitation she said, "Why should I? Why would he want to, if he's been so happy to just… just _lie_ to me this whole time?"

Alfred pursed his lips in an odd manner, suppressing some kind of outburst. But he still said with much conviction, "Because he needs you, Miss Gordon."

Though she had been through many shocks on that day, this one hit fresh when the ones that came just prior were dulled. _He… needs __me?_

"What?"

Alfred clasped his hands together and quite earnestly explained. "Miss Gordon, you must understand. When Bruce was but a boy, and we traveled the world, for those seven years we would eat our supper together every night, no matter what. And at every meal, he would be silent. His brow was furrowed, and his eyes were as rough and dead as coal. All he cared about was his crusade… but then we came back to Gotham, Miss Barbara. He met _you._"

Barbara found herself sitting back down in her seat to listen to Alfred, his voice slowly breaking down as emotion threatened to overcome him. He was reaching for his handkerchief again.

"He came home, that first day, we sat down for supper, and Barbara…" He looked up at her, stray tears dripping down his cheeks as a joyous smile overtook him. "…Barbara, I _couldn't get him to shut up!_ He talked about you, and your family, and his classes, and he seemed so happy, so genuinely happy. The first _real_, honest and happy smile he'd had in eight years. Miss Gordon, I promise you, even if every other second in Bruce's life has been a lie, I promise you: everything he has said, and felt, and done towards you has been true."

Barbara sat still and bowed her head, contemplating what to do next as a few notes of a Frank Sinatra song drifted inside of her skull…

* * *

A knock came at the door of Bruce Wayne's bedchambers. A spacious room, with a king-sized four poster bed. Maroon curtains hung on either side of the bed with a similar fabric draped above. The room was decorated in a similarly brooding color, and the blinds on the windows were drawn. The decoration was sparse, and the carpet plush. A single chair was set beside the bed.

Beneath the covers rested Bruce himself, bare-chested with bandages wrapped taught around his abdomen. He groaned as he heard the intruding knocks, and managed to moan, "What?"

"Master Bruce, you have a visitor."

"Ugh… send them in, Alfred."

The door opened and shut quickly, letting in the last person Wayne expected to see.

"…Barbara."

"Hey." She whispered, looking over his body as she inched closer. He realized he had more scars than she likely would have known. A long and thin one between his neck and his shoulder blade, and pock marks from bullet wounds along the left side of his chest. She made a slow, deliberate advance for the chair, taking a seat when she arrived.

For a moment, they stared at each other, searching for something to say. Barbara found the words first.

"I'm sorry."

She bowed her head so as not to look her friend in the eye, and Bruce glared at her with an expression of perplexity.

"Why are you sorry?"

She shook her head, a motion made more for need of one than for any meaning. "If I hadn't been so trusting… so, I don't know, so _gullible_, you wouldn't be…"

"Barbara." Bruce firmly said. She looked up at him, and saw a passion, and a force behind his eyes. "I didn't choose this life, thinking that I wouldn't be hurt. That I'd live forever. I'd rather be hurt than anyone else."

Barbara began to tear up, sniffling as she asked "Why? This isn't a life anyone has to lead, Bruce; why do you do this to yourself?"

Bruce's face did not distort as he spoke. "It's not about what I'm doing for myself. It's about what I'm doing for other people. I lost… everything when my parents died. My family. My innocence, my childhood. It was stolen from me. If it meant that no little boy or girl would ever have to go through that again, I'd give my life a thousand times over."

"But why alone?"

Bruce looked straight at Barbara, uncertainty marring his eyes. She explained, "Why do you have to do this alone? You could've told me, or… or someone! Anyone, instead of being this… this lone ranger thing you've been doing."

Bruce shook his head slowly. "Because I don't matter."

Barbara's expression begged for an explanation. Bruce continued on.

"The beauty of Batman is, Barbara, that anyone could be behind the mask. And, in a sense, _everyone _is. He's not a person, or a monster. He's a symbol. Something that criminals will fear, a symbol that the night will no longer protect them, and shelter them like it has. And he's a symbol to good, innocent people, that as long as he's here, they won't have to fear the shadows on their own streets, in their own homes. They can take back the night. He's more than just vengeance, Barbara… he's a sentinel. A protector. Like… like a king's knight. A knight cloaked in darkness, who never ceases in his vigil. It doesn't matter who's behind the mask, because he doesn't _want_ your approval, or recognition. Only to keep Gotham safe."

Barbara watched Bruce as he spoke, going on at lengths about his dream, his arms wildly gesturing as he envisioned some perfect world, that Barbara only wished she could join him in. When at last he seemed to stop, she asked, "You've been thinking about this a long time, haven't you?"

"It's my life." He said back to her. "My dream."

Barbara stood, stepping closer to the bed and laying a hand down on his shoulder.

"Well, the dream doesn't have to be so lonely, Bruce." She said with a smile. "Unless you've got some kind of mind eraser in your belt, your secret's out. And you," she added, tapping him on the nose with a finger. "are crazier than I thought if you think I'm letting you do this all by yourself."

Bruce grew a massive grin as he looked up at her. "Heh, is that so? And how do you plan on accomplishing that."

"Well," she mused. "you said Batman could be anyone, right?"

"Right?"

"Well, I see a problem with your theory."

"What's that?"

"You've got a Bat-MAN… but where's the Bat-GIRL?"

Bruce stared at her dumbfounded. And then, a thin smile returned. In a sudden rush of movement, he began to laugh as his arms reached out around Barbara for a hug. The girl was drawn forward and down, screaming protests on the grounds of gravity.

"Bruce, Bruce waitoffbalance—"

_THUD_

Unable to balance herself in time, Barbara was brought down by the hug, crash-landing straight on top of Bruce. The impact on his abdomen sent a shock of intense pain of his body, and a resounding yelp of pain blasted through the halls of Wayne Manor.

As quickly as she could, Barbara rolled off of him and onto the other side of the bed. She, panicked, sat up and looked over to make sure he wasn't hurt badly. What she found instead was a face full of enough humor that he looked ready to break out laughing at any moment. She burst out laughing, herself, and Bruce joined her a moment after. The sound echoed out, through the walls of the manor and further on, out into the encroaching night.

* * *

"Hm-hm-hm-hm hm-hm-hm-hm HM HMMMM~"

A lonely voice hummed to itself as a young man strolled around the exterior of Gotham High. It was about midnight, now, and the police, along with the other students, were long gone. But one boy, dressed in magenta dress trousers and still wearing a light green button up shirt and bow tie was swinging his suit jacket around, entertaining himself with a tune as he thought of something to entertain himself.

The greasy-haired boy was just about ready to head home for the night, when his eyes happened to drift over to a conspicuous dumpster against the wall.

"Hm… wonder if anybody left somethin' good tonight…"

With no better way to spend his time, J strolled over to the dumpster and threw open the lid. He hopped up to get a better look inside.

"Lessee here… aw, SCORE!"

He dropped back out, now holding a hatless, musty, but still perfectly good ventriloquist's dummy.

"Kinda mussed up in the face, but what the hell, I ain't choosy!" J exclaimed. "Who'd throw away a perfectly good puppet?! Oh well, finders keepers~"

He trotted off into the night, supporting his new pal on his shoulder.

"So, kid, whats yer name? Guess we'll have'ta think up a new one for ya. How about… Scarface? Hee-hee-hee-hoo-hoo…"


End file.
